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CVCRY DAY, 



BY 

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ARTHUR G. BURGOYNE. 



PirrsDurgh, Pa., 1900. 




PRESS OP 

PITTSBURGH PRINTING COMPANY 

1900. 



XNATO COPIES HECElVfiD. 

Library of C0Bgrtl% 
Office of tkt 

MAY 1 1 1880 

Keglafor of Copyrights 
6EC0NDC0PY. r^ 




RMY141800' il 






61398 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1900, 

By ARTHUR G. BURGOYNE, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



INTRODUCTORY. 



•np-HE verses in this volume are selected from a 
series appearing daily in the columns of the 
Pittsburgh ** Leader" since October, 1890, and consti- 
tuting a running commentary on the events of the 
hour. Unsandpapered and unvarnished, they were 
turned in as regular "copy," and it is, therefore, sim- 
ply as examples of ' ' short order ' ' newspaper verse 
that the writer submits them to the public in book 
form. All pretensions to a place in the class with 
laureates and other lyrists of an exalted type are cheer- 
fully waived, and only the indulgence due to a self- 
confessed machine poet is claimed by 

The Author. 
Pittsburgh, January 19, 1900. 



COlslTEr^NTS 



Page. 

The Old Silver Dollar 5 

To an Erring Astronomer 6 

Oom Paul 8 

Mason on the Floor 9 

Nevermore 10 

Mars at the Phone 12 

The Fire Alarm 13 

What Dewey Did 15 

Dog Days . . 16 

Echoes of the Fourth 17 

Deadman's Isle 19 

Old Joe 20 

Good Times 22 

Maceo 23 

The Crowning of Nicholas 25 

Menelik 27 

A Soldier's Letter 28 

When the Snow Melts 30 

Merriman's Bar 31 

Santa Glaus 33 

The Thanksgiving Bird 34 

The Day After Ghristmas 35 

Princeton Inn 37 

At the Ringside... 38 

Trump Gards 40 

A Blue Sunday 41 

Lil's Restoration 43 

Ghris Magee and Bill Flinn 44 

On a Mean May Day 46 

Sousa Triumphans 47 

Titwillie 49 

Ely's Great Home Run 50 

"Sic Transit" 52 

Harrisburg in '97 53 

Theology Up to Date 55 

To an Old Umbrella 56 

Mary's Garden 58 

At the Art Gallery 59 

Bolting Time 61 



Page. 

The Crime of '73 62 

The Return of the Crinoline 64 

When Brennen Quits the Chair 65 

The Cycling Age 67 

George and the Hatchet 69 

Plain William 70 

Nansen 72 

Marching Through Cuba 74 

Casablanca Redivivus 75 

Dewey 77 

The Merry Month of June 79 

The Circus Parade 80 

Spring 82 

Philhellenic 84 

The Tenth Pennsylvania 85 

Infra "Dig" 87 

Hymn of the National Delegates 88 

Espanol 90 

Inks 91 

Albert Ed's Lament 93 

Non Compos 94 

Listing 96 

Democracy's Love Feast 97 

Turkey Day 99 

Those New Year's Bills 101 

A La Wilcox 102 

The Plum Tree 104 

In Allegheny 105 

The '00 Model 107 

The Jackaby 108 

The Dinosaur 109 

Hagenbeck's Visit Ill 

Our Amazons 113 

Clipping Coupons 114 

Calumpit 116 

St. Valentine 117 

Summer 119 

Davy Hill's Plea 120 

The First Pantaloons 122 

A Kentucky Deadlock 123 

The Jingo 125 

Dora and Cassius 126 

Spring 128 

Jolly Kaisers 130 

In the Toils 132 

Satan Rebuked 133 

Not for Joe 135 



Page. 

The Equinox 137 

From Cairo to the Cape 138 

Advice to the Shah 140 

To a Lady in Distress 141 

Coamo 143 

Willie's Dinner Party 144 

Slabtown 147 

Seavey's Isle 149 

Boley on the Watch 150 

The Girl Graduate 152 

The Mandolin Cluh 154 

The Boy Graduate 155 

Paddy Rewski 157 

Columbus 158 

Lullaby 160 

Chautauqua 161 

Election Day 163 

Turning the Tables 165 

Goosebone Wisdom 166 

Gatacre's Inveiglement 168 

Objurgatory 170 

"In Extremis" 171 

McKinley's Message 173 

AVhere Can Aggie Be? 174 

The Open Door 176 

The Gobbler's Doom 177 

Poe 178 

A Meteoric Deception 179 

Dreyfus Avenged 181 

On the Ice 182 

Bobs of Candahar 184 

Naughty-Naught 185 

Aggie's Flight 186 

Brother Jolo 188 

The Ground Hog 189 

Lady Smith 191 



\ 



The Old Silver Dollar. 



How dear to our hearts is the bright bit of metal, 

That's known as a dollar all over the land ! 
How blithely and gaily our due bills we settle, 

And square up accounts with the cartwheels of Bland ! 
Who cares for the notes of the national banker ? 

Who cares for the greenback ? As gold 'tis the same. 
Oh, no. For that coin of our fathers we hanker, 

The old silver dollar of Popocrat fame. 

The old silver dollar, 
The heavyweight dollar, 
The half value dollar 
Of Popocrat fame. 

Those dollars of old. Well, we used not to coin 'em 

In days that were palmy ; for, as you'll recall, 
We feared that the Rothschilds would darkly purloin 
'em. 

We dreaded that Wall street would corner 'em all. 
Though suff'ring for silver, we just didn't use it. 

We left it to Europe that metal to claim. 
But now we'll restore it. Don't dare to abuse it, 

That old silver dollar of Popocrat fame. 

Ref. — The old silver dollar, etc. 



Professors informed us that when silver wandered 

Away from our shores and was strange to the mint, 
That metal alone was of prices the standard, 

And boosted the laborer's wage without stint. 
But when it came back and the government bought it 

In hundreds of tons, — oh, the woe and the shame ! — 
The government's help into disrepute brought it, 

That old silver dollar of Popocrat fame. 

Ref. — The old silver dollar, etc. 

In Coin's School of Finance 'tis well demonstrated 

That silver and prices to nothing must fall, 
Unless at a price that by congress is stated, 

The mints ask for silver and swallow it all. 
When this comes to pass, the whole outfit of nations 

Will pay any price that it suits us to name 
For that wonderful output of Coin's demonstrations, 

The old silver dollar of Popocrat fame. 

Ref. — The old silver dollar, etc. 



To an Erring Astronomer. 

How now, Brashear? What break in your machine. 

What jolts or jars 
Switched off the show mapped out for yestere'en, 

That show'r of stars ? 
Didst slip a cog, or knock the belting off, 

Or wheels disjoint 
That thus the multitude (now prone to scoff) 

You disappoint? 
Where were your lenses, convex and concave, 

Your quadrants true 
And tools for measuring, with aspect grave, 

The heavens blue ? 



Where were your never-failing charts and maps ? 

Oh, let us hope 
That Providence preserved from dire collapse 

Your telescope. 
Whate'er the mischief; aye, whate'er arose 

Your plans to mar, 
You can't deny your failure to disclose 

One shooting star. 
No, sir. Despite your promise to produce 

A show'r with ease, 
You did not turn a single twinkler loose. 

The crowd to please. 
E'en had a lonely two-pound meteor dropped 

The mob among. 
Perchance this visitation would have stopped 

The public tongue. 
But no. A million of us watched and watched 

And strained our eyes 
Until we found out that the job was botched 

Beyond disguise. 
Now this is not a fair and proper game. 

An honest steer, 
Nor can you kick if people lay the blame 

On you, Brashear. 
For just as Ancient Prob is roundly cussed 

For storms undue. 
So you when astronomic programs *'bust" 

Must suffer, too. 
But sir, we'll let you have another chance. 

If you know how. 
Shake up the sky, make all the planets dance, 

Kick up a row. 
Do this some night and criticisms severe 

We'll then recall. 
But you must hit the mark next time, Brashear. 

Play ball, play ball. , 



Oom Paul. 



Oom Paul is big, Oom Paul is fat, 
A slow and cumbrous-looking fellow, 

But well he knows where he is at 

When dogs of war around him bellow. 

With hand that's firm and nerve that's steady 
He's always ready. 

Behind him, solid as a rock, 

His people stand, a sturdy race 
That little fear the battle's shock. 

What odds how strong the foe they face ? 
No powV, while they've Oom Paul to guide 'em, 

Can override 'em. 

They proved a score of years ago 

Their never-failing store of grit 
When England sought to lay 'em low, 

And furious battle fires were lit. 
No danger scared ; no hardship tired 'em. 

Oom Paul inspired 'em. 

And so they won in many a fight, 

And manfully they kept their feet 
And England hailed with much delight 

Her first good chance for peace to treat. 
"Well done, Oom Paul," the whole world thun- 
dered 

And watched and wondered. 



And now, forsooth, Joe Chamberlain 
Serves notice of a war in store. 

The Boers, he swears, must fight again 
And cope with British steel once more. 

Whereat Oom Paul gives out this fiat, 
''All right. Come try it." 



So in the future close at hand 

Look out for squalls. In combat dire 
The foemen face to face will stand 

'Mid ruin black and blood and lire. 
And any Boer will bet his dinner 

That Paul's a winner. 



Mason on the Floor. 



When Billy Mason takes the floor 
There is a sudden rush of gore; 

From countless wounds it leaks. 
War drums give out a fierce tattoo 
And lightning streaks the heavens blue 

When Billy Mason speaks. 

The earth vibrates; the welkin rings; 
A tremor runs through czars and kings, 

Whose noses Billy tweaks ; 
The stars, affrighted, cease to shine, 
The dogs of war howl, snarl and whine 

When Billy Mason speaks. 

Cyclones spring up and waterspouts; 
An angry mob infuriate shouts 

Like Turks turned loose on Greeks. 
From ev'ry scabbard leaps the sword. 
Somebody's ox must needs be gored 

When Billy Mason speaks. 

Great guns are loaded; dynamite 
Goes ofif. A pallor ghastly white 

Shows on the women's cheeks: 
Skyrockets mount with wicked fizz 
On such occasions, namely, viz. : 

When Billy Mason speaks. 



Armed men go marching to and fro, 
Campfires send out a warning glow, 

And on the mountain peaks 
Strange signals greet the public eye; 
The mob exclaims '*Oh me, oh my!'' 

When Billy Mason speaks. 

Columbia starts in sheer surprise, 
Old Uncle Sammy rubs his eyes, 

The eagle loudly shrieks 
And circumambient oceans roar 
And wildly try to smash the shore 

When Billy Mason speaks. 

The hapless infant king of Spain 
Begins to wonder if his reign 

Will last for many weeks; 
And Blanco, wrapped in Fear's embrace, 
Feels just like toppling off his base 

When Billy Mason speaks. 

Yet when 'tis over, when of Bill 
The congressmen have had their fill 

And shut down on his freaks, 
Nobody's hurt ; no foe hurled hence ; 
'Tis in a strict Pickwickian sense 

That Billy Mason speaks. 



" Nevermore r' 

In Berlin the Reichstag sitting causes Yankee hearts to 

thrill. 
Causes horror and affliction with its meat inspection bill. 
Ruthless measure. Its provisions, now affirmed with 

angry roar, 
Paralyze our Meat Trust tapping, tapping at the 

Teuton's door. 
Quoth the Reichstag ''Nevermore." 

10 



In Chicago, Kansas City and in far-off Omaha 
There's no trace of trichinosis nor a sign of lumpy jaw. 
Guaranteeing this, the butchers and the packers hasten 

o'er 
To the tempting German market. But when entrance 

they implore, 
Quoth the Reichstag "Nevermore." 

Cudahy and Nelson Morris, Swift and Armour all unite 
In a plaintive note of protest. *'Boys," they say, **this 

isn't right. 
Here at home no clamps are on us. Why then from a 

foreign shore 
Should we be debarred? Ah, won't you treat us as in 

days of yore?" 
Quoth the Reichstag ''Nevermore." 

Past placating is the Teuton, and his ire cannot be 
calmed, 

For has he not heard the grewsome narratives of beef 
embalmed? 

Salicylic ham appals him, boric sausage makes a sore 

Species of impression on him. Knowing how our sol- 
diers swore. 
Quoth the Reichstag "Nevermore." 

There's the record — Miles and Daly, backed by scores 

of honest chaps, 
Swore that on this kind of diet e'en an ostrich would 

collapse. 
Stomachs rose in fierce rebellion; men keeled over by 

the score, 
"Fiends," said Deutschland, "would you sell us meat 

that's doctored to the core?" 
Quoth the Reichstag "Nevermore." 

Ah, the pity! Ah, the scandal! Is it not a woeful 

shame 
That our land should bear the stain of such a nasty little 

game? 
Out upon those hateful packers ! Fate for them should 

have in store 
Retribution since no neighbor trusts us as in times 

before. 
Quoth the Reichstag "Nevermore." 
11 



Mars at the 'Phone 



One Tesla on a summer day, 

With tools electric toiled away. 

Referring oft to bulky tomes, 

He figured much with volts and ohms. 

Like to a torrent was the flow 

Of power from out his dynamo. 

And cheerful was the pit-a-pat 

That issued from his rheostat. 

Anon he pufYed a fat cigar, 

And quaffed things from a Leyden jar. 

Whereat, refreshed, he'd soak with oil 

His favorite induction coil; 

Or, with a nonconductor drape 

His magnets of the horseshoe shape. 

Then upon problems deep intent 

He'd ponder, ponder, and invent. 

Just as the sun his downward slide 

Began, ''Eureka !" Tesla cried. 

"At last my toil and thought profound 

With glorious success are crowned. 

"For haply, thank my lucky stars ! 

IVe found a way of reaching Mars. 

"And" — here his face with glory shone- 

"I'll call 'em up by telephone." 

Now doth he stand his 'phone beside. 

Transfigured in his joy and pride. 

And with enthusiasm aglow. 

He rings and shouts a loud "Hello!" 

"Is that you. Mars?" — O dire suspense! 

What answer? — Aye, the strain's intense. 

Has Tesla failed ? Perhaps — But no, 

There travels back a faint "Hello!" 

Now hallelujah ! All's O. K. 

For Tesla 'tis a happy day. 

'Tis proved that he has had no peers 

12 



On earth within a thousand years. 
But, you may ask, with awe and dread, 
What Mars to Tesla later said. 
What were the words of mystic cast 
That traveled through the ether vast? 
Alas, those words were cold and few, 
They were not singular or new. 
No message of celestial grace 
They carried to the human race. 
The talk, in fact, we're bound to state, 
Was, just Hke Central's, up to date. 
Mars simply gurgled out somehow, 
"Ring up again. We're busy now." 



The Fire Alarm. 

"One — Three" — the dread alarm rings out. 

Its echoes putting sleep to rout. 

Wayfarers pause, and sleeping folks 

Wake up and count the laggard strokes. 

Some finding that no danger's nigh. 

Doze oi¥ again. Some when they spy 

The blaze that in the distance glows 

Rush forth in scanty meed of clothes, 

And speed through mud and slush and mire, 

While all the time they shriek "Fire, fire !" 

"Bing, bing! Crash, bang!" Like Furies fleet 

The firemen flash from street to street. 

Hose, ladders, engines rattle past 

Like thunderbolt or whirling blast. 

The very horses, black as night, 

Like war-steeds sweeping to the fight, 

Seem crazed, as 'neath a red-lit sky 

Forth to the scene of dread they fly. 

Now comes the crowd. Each mother's son 



Excitedly upon the run. 
Like phantoms from some ghostly sphere 
In every quarter they appear. 
Soon they are packed in solid mass 
Behind the lines, which none can pass 
Except the firemen and the few 
Policemen in their coats of blue, 
Who, much disgusted with their job. 
Pull out their sticks and boss the mob. 
The blaze roars upward to the skies. 
And puny water-jets defies. 
In vain the fire-chief, bronzed and stout, 
Impassioned, gives his orders out. 
In vain his men with hose and ax 
Their skill and strength and courage tax. 
As well might they attempt to snufT 
Vesuvius out. Lion-like they strain 
Their ev'ry nerve, but all in vain. 
There go the walls. The lurch, the smash, 
The thund'rous cataclysmal crash 
Fill the beholders' hearts with fright. 
And groans are heard and lips turn white. 
And some their neighbors quick remind 
Of venturous spirits left behind 
When from the wreck the firemen fled. 
And deeper grows the sense of dread. 
The morning dawns. The thousands creep 
Heart-sick and weary home to sleep. 
The firemen stay, still working hard. 
And all are grimy, stained and charred. 
Well dressed adjusters come to count 
The loss, nor start at the amount. 
And enterprise, now fallen through, 
Already fashions plans brand-new. 
Thus short-lived is the Fire King's star. 
But for a night his victories are. 



What Dewey Did. 

He hurried forth, 

He scurried forth 
From Hong Kong where he lay, 

He dashed along, 

He flashed along 
To old Manila's bay. 
He went bare-knuckled to the fray. He wore no gloves 

of kid, 
For he meant to paralyze the Dons, and that's what 
Dewey did. 

His jolly boys. 

His bully boys 
Were crazy for the fight. 

Equipped for it 

And stripped for it 
They were both day and night. 
All hands, alike the veteran and young and verdant 

"mid" 
Were burning to avenge the Maine, and that's what 
Dewey did. 

Dark night it was, 
Dread sight it was 
To see the squadron glide 
By foe unseen 
And go unseen 
The harbor lines inside. 
Explosives 'neath the waters had been dexterously hid. 
But heroes laugh at things like these, and that's what 
Dewey did. 

The quaking Dons, 
The shaking Dons 
Were taken by surprise. 



No grit they showed, 
No wit they showed ; 
Salt tears were in their eyes. 
They thought that Yankee hands from h — 1 had Hfted 

off the lid 
To dump their poor old squadron in, and — that's what 
Dewey did. 

He battered 'em, 

He shattered 'em, 
He ripped 'em all, kersmash! 

He turned 'em up, 

He burned 'em up. 
He sank 'em all, kersplash ! 
And now of Spanish ships and men the Philippines are 

rid, 
For Uncle Sam said "Clean 'em out!" and that's what 
Dewev did. 



Dog Days, 



Lo, the dog catcher! Soon he'll be in season 

Prowling the streets uncannily along; 
Ne'er will he pause to argufy or reason. 

But simply yank the canine, right or wrong. 
What does he care for value or for beauty? 

What does he care for lengthy pedigree? 
Moved by a sense of predatory duty, 

'"Canines," he says, "are all alike to me." 
Mastiff and pug and precious Gordon setter. 

Lap dog and Dane and terrier of Skye, 
Roaming at large — of course they should know better, 

Into his hands will fall and groan and die. 
Collie and pointer, bulldog heavy muzzled. 

Frisky King Charles and greyhound long and slim, 
Beagle and dachshund sorely will be puzzled 

When they essay to get away from him. 

16 



Raising his net, a thing of cruel meshes, 

Deftly he'll aim and trap his helpless prey ; 
And having safely bagged the burden precious, 

Off to the pound he'll blithely drive away. 
No Cerberus or fierce devouring dragon 

Ever kept watch with vigilance so keen 
As this dog-hunter with his net and wagon. 

Always alert to feed the death-machine. 
Gloom reigns around the pound, that place of slaughter. 

Where wandering hounds the coup-de-grace receive ; 
Caged up and sunk in black and chilly water — 

Thus in disgrace the sunny world they leave. 
Many a home will thus be filled with sorrow; 

Many a hearth will miss a cherished form ; 
Little it boots new dogs to buy or borrow, 

When He is cold, no other is so "warm." 
Haste then, and sink the necessary dollars 

In chain and strap and muzzle built of wire. 
Load up with ropes and hitching gear and collars ; 

Nail up the "purp" each night ere you retire. 
Then when around your home the catcher lingers, 

'Twill be your turn to grin with ghoulish glee, 
And to remark with careless snap of fingers, 

"Catchers of dogs are all alike to me." 



Echoes of the Fourth 



Friends, Romans, Countrymen, rejoice, be glad 
For great and glorious was the Fourth you had. 
Ne'er has there been another such a gay 
And blithe and brilliant Independence day. 
It bloomed, it fizzed, it effervesced, it glowed; 
In endless stream the fount of pleasure flowed. 
Ah, after such a ripper of a Fourth. 
Who'll say he failed to get his money's worth ? 

17 



Drawbacks there were. Full many a luckless wight 
Succumbed to powder or to dynamite, 
Or yielding to the giant cracker's charm. 
Gave up, perchance a leg, perchance an arm. 
Or when he looked within to find out why 
The "bang" was tardy, forfeited an eye. 
And there is likewise mourning in the land 
For him that held a rocket in his hand. 

There was, in sooth, no little havoc played. 
See what a rent the Roman candles made 
Which, bursting at a moment unforeseen, 
Assailed the celebrant and roused his spleen. 
And eke the pistol, made for callow kids, 
Led up to legends writ for coffin lids. 
For such mishaps are foreordained by Fate 
To mark always the Day We Celebrate. 

But he that kicks on little things like these 
Is certainly morose and hard to please. 
For had we not as compensating joys 
Prismatic fires and vast, volcanic noise ? 
Ah, twas a sight for Jove himself to see. 
This whole great nation on a jamboree. 
From hades with a whoop we raised the lid 
And ripped things open — that is what we did. 

Ah, famous Fourth, well may we wonder when 

Another such a day will come again. 

Another day of patriotic zeal, 

Pervading all this grand old commonweal. 

'Twas all that man could hope for or desire : 

A burst of light, a cataract of fire. 

And Young America, w-hich had the floor, 

Sighs deep and bitterly because 'tis o'er. 



16 



Deadman's Isle. 

A Ballade of the Ohio River. 

At Deadman's Isle, ill-fated spot, 
Where river furies lurk and plot, 
The mariner is often caught 

And wonders what the matter is. 
The ripple grimly grasps his craft, 
His cruiser, schooner, brig or raft, 
And riles him till he, fore and aft, 

As mad as any hatter is. 
Unsparing Deadman ! There to-day 
The stately coal boats on their way 
To southern ports, — O reader, pray, 

Give ear unto this tale of woe — 
These coalers, with their white wings spread, 
And all in trim to forge ahead, 
Approach the Island of the Dead. 

(Here please insert a wail of woe). 
Each captain on the poop-deck stands, 
A night glass in his sun-browned hands, 
And thunders out his bold commands 

In language terse and vigorous. 
The mate skips round with vet'ran skill. 
The bos'n pipes his whistle shrill. 
The purser meets with iron will 

The situation rigorous. 
From topmast high the cabin boy 
Sings out, "Land ho! Deadman ahoy!" 
The captain groans, "My poor convoy 

Of flats foredoomed to ruin is. 
Yon binnacle of brass so bright ; 
Yon marhnspike, my heart's delight. 
Must go. No ray of hope's in sight 

When such like trouble brewin' is." 
Soon, soon, the vessel will be swiped, 



All hands are now to quarters piped, 
The colors, neatly starr'd and striped, 

Are dipped, distress to signify. 
"Brave lads," the stricken captain cries, 
"Fly while you can. Who lingers dies." 
The tears that gather in his eyes 

The hero's visage dignify. 
Now comes the rush of flying feet, 
The mariners, all lads discreet. 
Care not a wat'ry grave to meet, 

And skip with much celerity. 
But mark the captain. Mercy, no ! 
Can this be thus? Ah, yes, 'tis so, 
Down with his ship he means to go, — 

Oh, Spartanlike temerity ! 
All's done. In water two feet deep. 
The hero sleeps his final sleep 
And loving ones for aye will weep, 

Recalling what became of him. 
Beneath the waters, noble soul! 
He rests 'mid Youghiogheny coal, 
And on th' immortal muster roll 

We'll register the name of him. 



Old Joe. 



Old Joe Wheeler, 

Solid at his post. 
Not a thing to kick about. 

Nobody to roast. 
Never writes a letter 

Full of gall and spite ; 
Old Joe Wheeler, 

He's all right. 



20 



Old Joe Wheeler, 

Flat upon his back, 
Got the boys to carry him, 

Marshaled the attack. 
Doctors couldn't handle him, 

Off he went to fight. 
Old Joe Wheeler, 

He's all right. 

Weary was the army; 

Spaniards hard to beat. 
Some one passed the word along, 

"Boys, we must retreat." 
'* — it, no," says Ancient Joe. 

"Never take to flight." 
Old Joe Wheeler, 

He's all right. 

After Santiago fell. 

Fighting men got sick. 
Generals and colonels 

All began to kick. 
"Hang it all," thought General Joe, 

"This disgusts me quite." 
Old Joe Wheeler, 

He's all right. 

Teddy wrote an angry note, 

Stirring Alger's bile. 
Ripped the powers up the back 

In a roughshod style. 
Not a word old Joe let drop 

At this woful sight. 
Old Joe Wheeler, 

He's all right. 

Never mad, never huffed. 

Never riled or sore. 
Steady Old Reliable 

Fights and nothing more. 
Don't forget him. Uncle Sam, 

(Some folks think you might). 
Old Joe Wheeler, 

He's all right. 



Good Times- 



Happy is the farmer in his truly rural ranche. 

To rejoice it is his turn ; 

He has crops and things to burn. 
Grain is in the granary and fruit is on the branch, 
And the people rush to buy, 

And to give him prices high. 
His wagons heavy-laden to the city roll away. 
Enabling him to tap a little Klondike ev'ry day. 
Oh, 'tisn't any wonder that the farmer's feeling gay 

For his pocketbook grows fat 

And he's mighty glad of that. 

Wheat and oats and yellow corn — Niag'ra-like they 
pour, 
Yet there isn't half enough 
Of the life-sustaining stuflF. 
Europe buys incessantly and still she cries for more, 
For this year she hasn't struck 
Her accustomed streak of luck. 
A fleet of ships goes merrily a-sailing o'er the main ; 
They're loaded to the quarter-deck with bags of yellow 

grain ; 
'Tis yellow gold they'll carry when they're sailing back 
again. 
Foreign folks their molars gnash. 
For they must give up the cash. 

Up goes flour a-whooping and our statesmen freely 
shed 

Tears of joy because the boom 

Conquers poverty and gloom. 
Bakers make arrangements to run up the price of bread, 

Which economists opine 

Is a very healthy sign ; 

22 



And ev'ry agriculturist, with gladness in his soul 

Believes that he in luxury will ultimately roll, 

Nor fears that subsequently he'll again be in the hole. 

With his pockets bulging out, 

'Tis no time for dread or doubt. 

Peaches by the million and the mellow canteloupe 

Into market daily come, 

And the glossy-coated plum 
Numerously figures like a messenger of hope; 

And the huckleberry, too. 

Is extensively on view. 
Tomatoes, blushing scarlet, are unloaded by the ton, 
The grinding of the cider press is merrily begun, 
The apple looms up 'apple-ly (excuse the scaly pun, 

For we're truly overjoyed 

And these things we can't avoid.) 

So before the year is out the farmer we will see 

In Prince Albert spick and span 

And in shoes of yellow tan, 
Also in a stovepipe hat as shiny as can be, 

And when Christmas comes again 

He'll be drinking fine champagne. 
Then blessings on the season which these benefits has 

brought 
And magic alterations in our people's case has wrought. 
A year like '97 with such happiness is fraught 

That there's really no recourse 

But to cheer until we're hoarse. 



Maceo. 

Behold yon new-made grave 
And weep, ye sons of men, 

r^or Maceo the brave 
Is dead — yes, dead again. 



In Cuba's gallant fight, 

Courageously unique, 
He battled for the right 

And fell — three times a week. 

When Campos led the foe. 
Did Maceo let him slide? 

Not so. With zeal aglow 
He fiercely charged and — died. 

The men who write the news 
Stood round and wept amain, 

While scribbling interviews 
With him who had been slain. 

Next day, rememb'ring not 

Their sorrow, they announced 

That Maceo on the spot 

The Dons again had trounced. 

Soon Weyler things controlled, 
And people held their breath, 

For Maceo, as of old. 
Went forth and met his death. 

Where'er he met in strife 
The Spaniards, sad to tell, 

He risked his priceless life 
And, foremost fighting, fell. 

On Sanguillera's plain. 

On Bandillera's coast, 
He never could refrain 

From giving up the ghost. 

He used to vault across 

The trocha evVy day, 
And — oh, the mournful loss! — 

He'd perish right away. 

•24 



I 



E'en when his foot and horse 
Had conquered, people still 

Would find poor Maceo's corse 
All gory, stiff and chill. 

In thicket, grove and dale, 
On mountains and on plains, 

The searcher could not fail 
To find those same remains. 

And still stern duty's call 
Requires that we lament 

Beneath a fun'ral pall 
This truly sad event. 

Then weep, good people weep, 
Let tears in torrents pour, 

For in his final sleep 

Poor Maceo lies once more. 



The Crowning of Nicholas 

Not a bomb was thrown, not a dynamite mine 

Was set off by conspirators frowning, 
Of Anarchy's hand there was never a sign 
At the great imperial crowning. 

Great crowds came in over ev'ry road, 
And they whispered the gruesome story 

That Moscow's palace was booked to explode 
And to blow all hands to glory. 

And from lip to lip in a voice low-toned. 
Went the rumor dark and dreary. 

And ambassadors quaked and envoys groaned 
And royalties felt quite weary. 

2ft 



Few and short were the kicks they made 
And they dared not think of skipping, 

For of vengeance dire they were sore afraid 
If the czar once caught 'em tripping. 

So with faces blanched and with trembling knees, 

And with hearts all palpitating, 
They did what they could to seem at ease 

In the course of the coronating. 

Nicholas himself was cool and calm, 
For his father of old had taught him 

To be stiff of lip and of diaphragm 
Whenever the Anarchists caught him. 

And he said to his wife, did this fearless czar : 

**If to-day T meet disaster, 
You will find my will in the bureau draw'r. 

Hid under my porous plaster." 

On came the priests with the jeweled crown, 
Which like to the sunbeams glistened, 

And the czar put it on and screwed it down. 
While for dynamite sounds he listened. 

But nought did he hear save the anthems low 
Of the choir and the pray'rs soft-spoken 

Of patriarchs. It was really so 

That the danger-spell was broken. 

Glad of heart was the czar and proud 

Of his neat escape from removal. 
And he tipped his crown to the surging crowd 

As a token of bland approval. 

But half of his royal task is done. 
For the Anarchs are still conspiring, 

Yet little he'll reck if they let him alone 
And at long range do their firing. 



Menelik. 



Oh the mis'ry ! Oh, the pity ! 

Over the Eternal City 

Hangs a pall of tribulation, 

Hangs a gloomy adumbration, 

Sent to figure as a token 

Of a nation's glory broken. 

Hapless Rome ! What villain tricked her ? 

Menelik? Yes, Menelicked her. 

Things were diff'rent on the morning 
When all thoughts of danger scorning, 
Noble Romans, on their mettle, 
Started Menelik to settle. 
Bands were playing, flags were flying, 
"Viva!" everyone was crying. 
Guns were booming ev'ry minute; 
Abyssinia wasn't in it. 

On the hostile shore they landed 
And apologies demanded. 
"Menelik," they said, "be humble 
Or from off your throne you'll tumble, 
Losing all your royal pickings. 
Paralyzed by Menelickings, 
One last chance to you we'll tender. 
Put your gun up and surrender." 

Strange to say, the Abyssinian 
King was not of this opinion. 
So he called his fiercest kickers, 
Filled 'em up with Meneliquors; 
Said to 'em, "Shall we lie idle 
Under pressure homicidal?" 
"Never," cried they all in chorus. 
"Italy shall fall before us." 

27 



Thus a fierce campaign was fathered ; 
Sixty thousand natives gathered. 
Arms they had and ammunition 
And advantage of position. 
'Way up in the mountains airy 
They lay low for Baratieri, 
All prepared the scrap to mix in 
Ere he'd gotten Menelicks in. 

Crash! The armies came together, 
All the Furies slipped their tether, 
Romans fell like leaves in autumn. 
"Ha!" cried Menelik, "I've got 'em." 
Baratieri, wretched victim. 
Never knew how Menelicked him. 
Oh, the mis'ry ! Oh, the pity ! 
Floored is the Eternal City. 



A Soldier's Letter. 

The neighborhood is all astir. 

Great is the fuss and fluster. 
Together in a busy swarm 

The gossipmongers muster. 
There's news on hand and when 'tis known, 

They'll all be feeling better 
For somebody, some lucky soul. 

Has got a soldier's letter. 

Tom, Dick or Harry — whosoe'er 

It may be, 'mid the rattle 
Of guns and drums tells rudely of 

His baptism of battle. 
No need has he with arts of speech 

Ingeniously to juggle; 
Howe'er he writes, they know he was 

A hero in the struggle. 

2B 



A qualm he felt, he freely states, 

When bullets first fell near him, 
But soon the fighting craze came on , 

And nought on earth could "skeer" him. 
What odds that life at such a time f 

Was hardly worth a penny ! 
His cartridge belt he emptied and 

He slew — dear knows how many. 

! 

Jack at his right was stricken down. 

And at his left fell Eddie. .' 

But still his nerve was iron-like, ! 

And still his hand was steady. 
And when a bullet grazed his head 

And left a furrow gory, 
It simply riled him. Twice as hard 

He fought then for Old Glory. 

He saw the brave Rough Riders charge ; 

He saw guerillas shooting. 
He helped to take San Juan and send \ 

The Spanish outposts scooting. 
And still he's living, safe and sound, 

With not a thing to grieve him 
Except a touch of Yellow Jack, 

And that will quickly leave him. 

The folks at home with swelling hearts 

And eyes that oft need drying, 
Devour the simple tale and set 

The family colors flying. 
For mark it well, not all the mails 

In all creation carry 
Such precious news as that which comes 

From Tom or Dick or Harry. 



When the Snow Melts. 

Slush, slush, slush ! — 

There are seas and lakes of mud, 
And pedestrians rash to ruin rush 

And fall with a sullen thud. 
For the street is slippy yet 

And threatens misfortune dire, 
And it's oh for the hapless ones upset 

And wallowing in the mire. 

The small boy whoops and hoots, 

He shows no sign of dread. 
But scoots along in his rubber boots 

Dragging a bumping sled. 
For youth is wild and rash. 

Nor fears the tempest's wrath, 
But covets the chance to slide and splash 

And yearns for a muddy bath. 

The maiden coy and prim. 

With skirts pulled up around. 
At fearful hazard to life and limb 

Covers the doubtful ground. 
She shrieks — she slips — she goes. 

'Tis an awful sight, ah me ! — 
When the slush engulfs those stainless hose 

And dainty lingerie. 

The stately merchant prince. 

With shining silken tile. 
Too proud in danger's face to wince 

Moves in a pompous style. 
And the coarse, unfeeling crowd, 

And the kids en route to school, 
Assail his ears with laughter loud 

When he sits in a slimy pool. 






Oh, where is the singer sweet 

That warbled years ago 
A song of praise in verses neat 

About the beautiful snow ? 
That guy was off his base, 

He knew not nature's law, 
That snow some day must needs give place 

To a foul and clammy thaw. 

Slush, slush, slush ! — 

After ev'ry snow it comes. 
No use for giddy bards to gush — 

'Tis umbrellas we need and gums, 
And the poet's magic lyre 

Is sorely out of tune. 
In these days of the petticoat daubed with mire 

And the soaking pantaloon. 



Merriman's Bar. 

Merriman's Bar — who has not heard tell 
Of that ill-omened spot with its evil spell ? 
When the water is low, its white sands gleam 
'Mid the watersr swift of Ohio's stream. 
When the water is high 'tis lost to sight. 
Like a thief that's hid in the shades of night. 
And then neither sunshine nor friendly star 
Betrays the location of Merriman's Bar. 

Merriman's Bar. At the very name 

A shudder convulses the mariner's frame. 

"Ah me !" he sighs. **What a dead soft snap 

I'd have were it not for that old death trap ! 

What a pleasure a sailor's life would be 

If from breakers and snags his course were free. 

And no vagrant plank or wand'ring spar 

Told tales of wreck on Merriman's Bar." 

31 



But no ! O ye that the waters ride, 

Must often alas ! lay hope aside 

And await the worst as a watch ye keep 

On the trackless paths of the vasty deep. 

For man, proud man, is a creature frail 

Whose powers full oft are of small avail. 

And he seldom, if ever, is up to par 

When he runs aground on Merriman's Bar. 

'Tis a gallant sight when the coalboats gay 
From the Pittsburg landings sail away. 
Mothers and wives, with a furtive tear, 
Watch the lordly vessels disappear. 
And with quivering lips and long-drawn sigh 
Those dear ones murmur a last "Good-bye !" 
Well do they know that the bold Jack Tar 
May go down to his ruin at Merriman's Bar. 

'Tis a sad, sad sight when the news comes in 
Of terrible danger to kith and kin. 
At the bulletin boards a surging crowd 
Is seen, and with grief all heads are bow'd, 
When the word is passed that with sick'ning crash 
A clipper-built barge has gone to smash. 
Ah, Juggernaut with his destroying car 
Doesn't half size up with Merriman's Bar. 

Who was Merriman ? What was his game, 
And why did his doings belie his name? 
Blank are the records; they give no guide 
To this great promoter of homicide. 
But whoever he was and whatever he meant, 
He has wrought out a purpose malevolent. 
And 'tis time for Progress to hitch up her car 
And triumphantly haul away Merriman's Bar. 



32 



Santa Claus 



up in the mountains high, high, high, 
There's a jolly old chap with a glist'ning eye. 
In a workshop quaint he hammers and saws, 
And the name on his sign is Santa Claus. 

There's where he turns out Christmas toys 
Ready for bright little girls and boys. 
With knives and chisels and cans of paint 
He works all day, does that jolly old Saint. 

At early morn when the mail comes in 
He goes through it all with a jolly old grin, 
For it fills his heart with intense delight 
To read ev'ry word that the children write. 

"Santa Dear, won't you kindly bring 

A jointed doll and a nice gold ring, 

And a baby carriage and candy, too ?" 

"Aha!" says the Saint, "That's just what I'll do." 

"Santa, please, down the chimney come 
With a punching bag and a gun and a drum. 
And skates and boots and a sled for me. 
"Aha!" says the Saint, "I'll be there, you'll see." 

"Santa, dear, do not pass us by. 

A turkey fat and a nice mince pie 

Are all we want." Says the Saint, "Never mind 

A Christmas dinner for you I'll find." 

"Santa, dear, you must not suppose 
That 'tis toys we want, for we're short of clothes. 
Can't you slip our dad a ten-dollar bill?" 
"Aye," says his Saintship, "that's what I will." 

88 



So he hammers and saws and he cuts and he sews, 
And he packs up jewels and toys and clothes. 
And he chops down trees which you'd better be- 
lieve 
He'll be trimming himself on Christmas eve. 

Dear old Saint ! If it wasn't for him 
Christmas Day might be bleak and grim. 
And old and young have the very best cause 
To be glad that the world has a Santa Claus. 



The Thanksgiving Bird. 

The eagle is lord of a noble dominion, 

Majestic he soars 'twixt the earth and the sky. 
And hov'ring aloft on imperial pinion, 

He holds his levee on the Fourth of July. 
From the tropics clear up to the region that's polar, 

His soul-stirring notes are with reverence heard, 
And he's only eclipsed by that other high roller, 

America's stand-by, the Thanksgiving bird. 

The trav'ler who roams about hither and yonder 

Hears many a vain and inordinate boast; 
The proud South American brags of his condor — 

Just think of that fowl for a Thanksgiving roast! 
Wild Africans point to that top-heavy wobbler, 

The long-legged ostrich, with pride that's absurd. 
Ah, there's none can compare with our own turkey 
gobbler, 

Supreme in his tribe is the Thanksgiving bird. 

The ibis, the lyre bird, the stately flamingo. 

The snipe and the pheasant, the grouse and the quail. 

Are glorified freely in all sorts of lingo 
And figure in many a luminous tale. 



The partridge is dainty, the woodcock enticing, 
The wild duck by epicures oft is preferred ; 

But if life with the greatest of joys you'd be spicing, 
You're bound to fall back on the Thanksgiving bird. 

No need of a touch from the hand of a wizard 

Controlling the arts of the mystic cuisine 
To flavor his flesh. Leg and wing, neck and gizzard, 

Are all proper fare for a king or a queen. 
And as for the breast — oh, ye gourmands, confess it. 

Your feelings thereby are resistlessly stirr'd. 
You look for perfection and lo ! you possess it. 

Enshrined in the flesh of the Thanksgiving bird. 

Then here's wishing luck to the man whose researches. 

Pursued 'mid the tribes of the air and the field. 
Brought second-class claimants adown from their 
perches 

And first the rare charms of the Turkey revealed. 
Yes, while we are feasting, let's duly remember 

To recognize fondly the favor conferred 
By whoever first thought in the month of November 

Of crowning the board with the Thanksgiving bird. 



The Day After Christmas, 



The day after ! — 'Tis not very cheery, 

The gilding has somehow worn off, 
And Pa is decidedly weary 

And Ma has a raspy old cough. 
To the spirit so keenly vivacious 

That yesterday all of us fired. 
There succeeds a reaction ungracious, 

Mankind is dejected and tired. 

85 



Santa Claus is no longer enchanting 

The spell that hung round him has fled. 
And he leaves but a memory haunting 

The soul with unspeakable dread. 
For he comes pretty high and when, after 

His visit, the bills come to hand, 
There^s an end of melliflous laughter 

And woe is abroad in the land. 

Then the little ones — bless 'em ! — have striven 

Their hoHday gifts to wipe out. 
And the costliest playthings are riven 

Apart at the very first bout. 
An unmendable cripple is "dollie," 

Collapsed are the drum and the horn ; 
How could any young hopefuls be jolly 

To-day as they were yestermorn ! 

Like some downcast and penitent sinner 

That's forfeited caste and repute 
One looks back on that large turkey dinner 

With mincemeat and pudding to boot. 
Ah, if man would but think of the morrow. 

When haply himself thus he fills, 
There would be no post-prandial sorrow. 

Inclusive of potions and pills. 

'Tis too bad that the carnival festive 

Should lose its attraction so fast 
That satiety should get the best of 

The happiest mortal at last. 
That the goblet of pleasure heart-warming 

Should always be doomed to be spilt. 
But there's no use in fuming and storming, 

You see, 'tis the wav that we're built. 



3(» 



Princeton Inn. 

At Princeton Inn, that hallowed place 
Where sordid chasers never chase, 
And bleary topers never try 
With morning drams to ope the eye, 
There's trouble nov^. An evil star 
Has risen o'er the guileles bar 
And brought dark obloquy and scorn 
On gentle mug and peaceful horn, 
Aye, there's a coarse hubbub and din 
At Princeton Inn. 

The sober souls that gather there 
Indulge no thoughts of "jag" or "tear." 
Grave scientists of mien austere 
In solemn conclave sip their beer 
And now and then a pretzel munch 
Which serves 'em as a frugal lunch. 
But stronger stimulants are scorned 
And no one thinks of getting "corned," 
For there's no whisky, rum or gin 
At Princeton Inn. 

Sometimes collegians strike the spot. 
Pretending that a time red-hot 
They love not but prefer, in fact. 
The temperate and frugal act. 
And this ingenious little game 
Gives many a festive cuss the name 
Of walking straight, whereas, you see 
A lallycooler he may be. 
There's none to doubt or cry "Too thin" 
At Princeton Inn. 

At times G. Cleveland, noble soul ! — 
Drops in to drain a friendly bowl. 
And while the foaming malt he sips. 

87 



Wise words fall from his honored lips. 

Then do the scientists make free 

To clink their mugs and drink to G. 

Who thus benignly condescends 

To tipple mildly with his friends. 

How nice that statesmen yarns should spin 

At Princeton Inn. 

But lo, the synods, pausing not 

To learn who's who or what is what, 

Pounce on this peaceful, harmless place 

And call it ev'rything that's base. 

And hence unless the Profs, rebel 

G. C. must hunt a new hotel 

And scientists and all that ilk 

Must wash their pretzels down with milk 

Whereat most men will give the grin 

To Princeton Inn. 

At the Ringside. 

The brutal sport is finished, 

The butchery is o'er, 
The lawless, heartless sluggers 

Have bathed themselves in gore. 
And righteous people murmur, 

Disgusted with the strife, 
"Fitzsimmons is a corker 

From Corkville — betcher life." 

Like beasts of prey those sluggers 
( Mixed up within the ring, 

And unto one another 

They "didn't do a thing." 
The world, appalled, beheld 'em. 

And Conscience wide awake 
Cried out, "This fight's a cuckoo, 

And no dodgasted fake." 



As when the tiger hungry- 
Leaps forth with wicked howl, 

Jim jumped upon Fitzsimmons 
And jabbed him in the jowl. 

And moralists indignant 
To see the cruel fun, 

Observed, "Our stuff's on Corbett, 
We'll lay you two to one." 

As when the dread hyena 

Proceeds to tear and claw, 
Fitz hurled himself on Corbett 

And plunked him in the jaw. 
Whereat right-thinking people 

With wrath began to storm 
And shrieked, "Tho' Jim is hot stuff. 

Bob certainly is warm." 

Oh, cruel, cruel carnage! 

Bob rose in round fourteen, 
And with his deadly mitten 

Banged Corbett in the spleen. 
And as the erstwhile champion 

Went down ith gurgling sob. 
The world yelled, /'Shame upon ye! 

Hooray for Lanky Bob !" 

Yea. E'en while we prohibit 

In all the states save one 
The shocking, vicious prize fight. 

Which all men ought to shun, 
Our wrath pro tem. we smother. 

And somehow cause enough 
We find to yell like sixty, 

"Fitzsimmons is the stuff." 



Trump Cards 



With a card up his sleeve, 
The redoubtable Piatt, 
Feeling ripe for a spat. 
At St. Louis arrives. 
He looks daggers and knives. 

And he hopes to retrieve 
Levi's fortunes depressed. 
Yes, he's doing his best 

With a card up his sleeve. 

With a card up his sleeve. 
Tommy Reed comes from Maine. 
"Have I labored in vain 
As congressional czar ?" 
He exclaims. "Must my star 

The bright firmament leave?" 
Though by Manley thrown down, 
He's still after the crown. 

With a card up his sleeve. 

With a card up his sleeve, 
Matthew Quay comes around. 
Looking over the ground. 
He has little to say. 
But 'twill be a cold day 

When opponents deceive 
Or play tricks upon Matt. 
He is ready for that 

With a card up his sleeve. 

With a card up his sleeve, 
Old Man Allison bold 
In his fealty to gold. 
Isn't yielding a bit. 
For though sentenced to quit, 

He expects a reprieve. 
Holding out to the last. 
By his claims he stands fast, 

With a card up his sleeve. 

40 



With a card up his sleeve, 
Hanna gets in the game, 
And enlivens the same 
By the way that he swings 
Winning aces and kings. 

Which his rivals aggrieve. 
And he swears that he knows 
He'll come in at the close 

With a card up his sleeve. 

With a card up his sleeve. 
That's the way it is done. 
That's the way that they run 
Our conventions, for why 
Should old Vox Populi 

Any conquest achieve, 
Since it fails to chip in 
Where professionals win 

With a card up his sleeve ? 



A Blue Sunday. 

In the parks the lounging masses 

Waited for the Sunday band. 
Waited for the wood and brasses, 

Marshaled under deft command. 
But in vain the people waited. 

Dulcet strains were not in store, 
And a voice ejaculated: 

"Sunday music? Nevermore." 

In advance the unsuspecting 

Players had their gems rehearsed. 
And the geniuses directing 

For new triumphs were athirst. 
But the news that they were sat on 

Made 'em shudder, made 'em gasp, 
Ah, 'twas sad to see the baton 

Drop from Guenther's nerveless grasp. 

41 



Brisk fantasias, swift potpourris, 

Nocturnes in a minor key. 
Two steps, sarabands and bourrees, 

Opera bijouterie, 
All these things with care selected. 

Had been programmed. Who'd have thought 
That such efforts well directed 

Should be doomed to come to naught? 

But 'twas so. A veto solemn 

Fell upon the loud trombone, 
On the E flat what-d'ye-call 'em. 

On cornet and saxophone. 
Some unfeeling Mrs. Grundy, 

Tired of cymbals, drum and fife, 
Wrathful cried : "What ! play on Sunday 

In the parks? Not on your life.'' 

To the people this embargo 

Seemed like putting on a gag, 
For they sighed for Handel's "Largo" 

And the tempo of the "rag." 
And they wanted things pathetic. 

Such as music halls emit. 
But they got the word splenetic, 

"Sunday music? Aber nit." 

Say who is the sour offender. 

Who the tyrant that demands 
That our people shall surrender 

Interest in Sunday bands? 
Let us hunt him up and show him 

What is what. With horns immense 
Off the earth let's promptly blow him, 

Scouting thus his vile offense. 



LiPs Restoration. 



With teardrops in her lovely eyes 
The Sandwich Lily came 
To Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
To reassume her queenly guise 
She sweetly filed a claim 
With Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
Says she, "Oh, Mr. President, you're chivalrous, I 

know ; 
You could not be a party to a lady's overthrow, 
And hence for restoration quite confidingly I go 
To Grover, 
Good old Grover." 



Her skin as dark as Erebus, 
Her air of regal grace 
Caught Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
"I'm happy madam, to discuss 
Your interesting case." 
Quoth Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
"Your dusky kind of beauty has its own peculiar charm 
That moves me to relieve you from the slightest dread 

of harm ; 
If any one is competent your foemen to disarm 
'Tis Grover, 
Good old Grover." 



He summoned then the cabinet, 
Which held a grave pow-wow 
With Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
They said, "We'll help the lady yet, 
And set her right somehow, 
Through Grover, 
Good old Grover. 

43 



The age of chivalry endures ; on that 'tis safe to bank ; 
And since some scamps have ventured Lily's crown 

away to yank, 
Who is there in the universe that can restore her rank 
But Grover, 
Good old Grover?'' 

The foremost goldsmith in the town, 
Was summoned and he came 
To Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
"Oh, make me quick a golden crown 
With jewels in the same," 
Said Grover, 
Good old Grover. 
The crown was made; no monarch could a finer head- 
dress wear; 
Instanter it was placed upon the Lily's kinky hair, 
And now the greatest man on earth, Hawaiians all 
declare, 

Is Grover, 
Good old Grover. 



Chris Magee and Bill Flinn. 

(Written when the venerable Pittsburg "Commercial 

Gazette" was convicted of libeling the city bosses). 
Observe, ye journals up-to-date, 
The poor Old Lady's painful fate. 
Convicted of that awful sin 

Of jumping on * * * * * and ***** 
Whose names to mention — curious fact ! — 
Henceforth is a felonious act. 

Sometimes the press finds time you see. 

To jump on * * * * * and roast ***** 

And heretofore, in doing this. 

It spoke of them as * * * * and ***** 

Which lack of reverential awe 

Must cease, for 'tis against the law. 



'Twas often hinted that this pair 

Of pious persons did their share 

Of meddling in affairs of state 

And meanwhile gathering riches great. 

But now no man that drives a quill 

May hint such things of * * * * * and * * * * 

And oft when in the lobby they 

Their plans with cunning art would lay, 

Dark schemes concocting to outwit 

That poor old stager, Father Pitt, 

The press would howl. But now we'll miss 

Those howls concerning * * * * and ***** 

At Harrisburg the noble dukes 

Likewise have gotten in their hooks. 

And many a legislative pill. 

Ill-flavored, came from ***** and * * * * 

These things were shown up many a time. 

But now — to breathe them is a crime. 

Thus Providence prepares for us 

A government anonymous. 

Veiled prophets will our laws hand down 

And in the dark control the town. 

And only ringsters thick-and-thin 

May name ***** or mention ***** 

Wherefore, ye journals of our town, 

Close up, keep dark, say nix, lie down. 

And bid the men that type do set 

To watch and guard the alphabet. 

Lest lawless letters should get free 

And form the names ***** and ***** 



I 



i 



On a Mean May Day. 



No use to call her early, 

Call her early, mother dear. 
For May Day's getting meaner, 

Getting meaner ev'ry year. 
All day it drizzles, mother, 

Giving ev'ry one the blues. 
And celebrants wear rubber coats 

And sloppy overshoes. 
Oh, truly, such a day, mother, 

Truly such a day 
Is rough on the Queen o' the May, mother, 

Rough on the Queen o' the May. 



Don't waste your time, dear mother, 

Vamping up a floral crown, 
In half an hour or sooner 

'Twould be soaked and wilted down. 
The weather man sits waiting. 

Dearest ma, to make a spring. 
And to that poor old diadem 

He wouldn't do a thing. 
And this is no exception, ma, 

It always is that way. 
A.nd 'tis rough on the Queen o' the May, mother. 

Rough on the Queen o' the May. 



Your girl is fair to look upon, 

Her locks are burnished gold. 
But, mother, she cannot afford 

To catch her death of cold. 
And if, O ma, in robes of white 

She gayly prances round. 
The gloomy undertaker man 

Will plant her underground. 
Pneumonia hunting for a chance 

The young and fair to slay 
Is rough on the Queen o' the May, mother, 

Rough on the Queen o' the May. 



Who talks about the Maypole 

In a wild, romantic vein? 
This Maypole nonsense, mother, 

Gives to men of sense a pain. 
To gambol on the greensward 

When the flowers are in bud 
Is well enough, but, bless you, ma'am ! — 

Who'd gambol in the mud ? 
'Tis mud that's holding sway, mother, 
And mud that's holding sway 
Is rough on the Queen o' the May, mother, 

Rough on the Queen o' the May. 



L'ENVOI. 

Perhaps when we have gone to press 

And when these lines are read. 
The sunshine will have dried the earth. 

And sorrow will have fled. 
If so, O mother, let 'er rip. 

Get out those robes of white. 
And crown of flo'wrs and give to us 

A vision of delight. 
But the outlook is dark, we must say, mother, 

Dreary and dark, we must say, 
And 'tis rough on the Queen o' the May, mother. 

Rough on the Queen o' the May. 



Sousa Triumphans. 



O Sousa, gallant Sousa, 

With the marches that you wrote 
Our warriors equipped themselves 

And came and saw and smote. 
No matter whom they had to fight. 

In any foreign clime, 
To the music of your two-steps 

They could conquer ev'ry time. 

47 



When Dewey in Manila bay 

His awful sweep began, 
The band upon his flagship 

Started up "El Capitan." 
And thus inspired, our sailor lads 

Got at and let 'er go 
Till not a Spanish ship remained 

To tell the tale of woe. 

At Santiago, when Toral 

His arms was laying down, 
"The Stars and Stripes Forever" 

Stirred the echoes of the town. 
And when our conq'ring flag was raised, 

Drum, trumpet and bassoon 
Topped off the ceremony 

With a rattling Sousa tune. 

In forests, where guerillas lurked. 

In trenches damp and drear, 
The grim and seasoned regular 

And homesick volunteer 
Alike forgot their troubles 

And no more were feeling glum 
When somebody bethought himself 

A Sousa march to hum. 

"A Hot Time" figured also; 

There are words to that, you know ; 
But though the tune is warm, it lacks 

The Sousa swing and go. 
To stir our lusty lads ashore 

And gallant tars afloat, 
There's nothing half so jolly as 

The things that Sousa wrote. 

Then here's to Hero Sousa, 

To that king of fighting men 
Who routs the foe completely 

With his paper and his pen. 
Bow down, ye foreigners, bow down; 

We do not care a cuss 
For the whole confounded universe 

While Sousa writes for us. 

48 



Titwillie. 

On the avenue sidewalk a willie-boy stood 
Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie, 
Putting on all the style that a willie-boy could 

Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
He was feeble of limb and defective in brain, 
But his hair it was banged and he carried a cane. 
Those who passed him remarked, for they couldn't re- 
frain, 

" Oh willie, titwillie, titwilUe." 

As the willie-boy puffed at his mild cigarette. 

Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
He fancied he was of the fair sex the pet, 
Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
So he ogled the girls in a languishing style. 
Feeling sure that their hearts he would thusly beguile, 
And he cared not for folks who observed with a smile, 
** Oh willie, titwillie, titwiUie." 

A lass came along who was wondrously fair. 

Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie, 
The wilHe-boy, seeing her, lisped out, "Ah there!" 

Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
In those two little words what he meant to convey 
Was that love at first sight to the heart found the way, 
And besides that's the thing that all willie-boys say. 
Sing willie, titwillie, titwilUe. 

The lass passed along as if nothing she'd heard, 

Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
But the willie-boy's soul by her beauty was stirred, 

Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
So he followed her quickly and reaching her side, 
With his cane in the air, and his eyes opened wide. 
Said "Ah there" once again — he would not be denied, 
" Oh willie, titwillie, titwillie." 

49 



It happened alas! that the lady unkind, 
Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 

Had a husband, who just then was walking behind. 
Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 

The husband was tall and of ponderous weight, 

And the way he went after that masher was great. 

Did the willie-boy skip ? No, indeed, 'twas too late, 
Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 



Ely's Great Home Run. 



Tradition tells of paladins who met in fearful fights. 
And swung their broadswords round their heads and 

smote tremendous smites; 
Of knights who single-handed fought and laid whole 

armies flat; 
Of Richard who on Saladin victoriously sat. 
Great heroes these, but all their famous feats rolled into 

one 
Look feeble by comparison with Ely's great home run. 

You've heard of Ely. Such a strange anatomy he 
owns 

That people widely know him by the sobriquet of 
"Bones." 

He's shortstop for our Pittsburg team, but when to rip 
and snort 

And tear things up old "Bones" begins no pow'r can 
stop him short; 

And so he turned things upside down till e'en the shin- 
ing sun 

Stood still and gasped astonishment at Ely's great home 
run. 



Eight innings had been played, the ninth was drawing 

to a close ; 
The score it stood at 3 to 2 in favor of our foes. 
For Boston, full of ginger and of chipperness and gall, 

50 



Had certainly been putting up a famous game of ball. 
Two men were out. Our boys, it seemed, were totally 

undone; 
Such was the lay-out at the time of Ely's great home 

run. 



The crowd, which thought the jig was up, was moving 
off the ground. 

When click ! — there came from Ely's bat the sharp, de- 
cisive sound 

Which tells of leather fiercely swiped. Great Christmas ! 
Could it be 

That "Bones" was doing business? Ev'ry eye was 
strained to see. 

Then from two thousand throats there came the cry, 
"Well done, well done!" 

And ev'ry one went crazy over Ely's great home run. 



Oh, what a fearful swipe that was! The leather trav- 
eled hence 

Away to farthest center field and landed at the fence, 

While "Bones" around the bases skipped at locomotive 
speed, 

And landed home, a hero and a conqueror, indeed. 

And Boston, which supposed itself to have the battle 
won. 

Fell flat beneath the crushing weight of Ely's great 
home run. 



Our Own, inspired by Ely's feat, came nobly to the fore. 
And in the tenth another run they added to the score. 
Aye, from the jaws of dire defeat a victory was snatched, 
And poor old Boston sneaked away, undone and over- 
matched. 
Ah, boys, that was a record. Other feats may shine 

but none, 
Past or present, figures in the class with Ely's great 
home run. 



u 



''Sic Transit-" 

As Sully fell and Corbett, too, 

So Fitz at last goes tumbling down. 
Another hero wears the crown. 

Ring out the old ; ring in the new. 

Ring out the pride of lanky Bob, 
Ring out the laurels that he bore 
Away from far New Zealand's shore, 

'Mid plaudits from the howling mob. 

Ring out his long and nobby string 
Of finish fights, with ev'ry bout 
Concluding wath a clean knock-out. 

To such old mem'ries who will cling? 

Ring out the glory that he won 

When Dempsey, Goddard, Maher, all 
Before his prowess had to fall. 

All that is past. His day is done. 

Ring out his triumph unexcelled 
When with a solar plexus thrust 
He laid Jim Corbett in the dust 

And thenceforth sway imperial held. 

Ring out the oceans of long green 

That surged around him while the crowd 
To shake his royal hand felt proud 

And ''hollered" for the great ''champeen." 

Ring out the floods of interviews, 
The cuts of Fitz in every style, 
His demon grin, his fatal smile. 

The endless "ads" dished up as news. 

Ring out the plays of garish hue 
Wherein the mighty fistic star 
Was wont to punch the bag and spar 

A condescending round or two. 



Ring out the rivers of champagne 
Set up by those that sang his praise. 
Likewise the ladies with bouquets 

That followed in the hero's train. 



Ring out, wild bells, and let your tune 
Bid him that cut so wide a swath 
Go hence and follow Corbett's path 

And run an up-to-date saloon. 

For lo, in the ethereal blue 

A brand-new star is shining high. 
"Hurrah for Jeff!" the people cry. 

Ring out the old ; ring in the new. 



Harrisburg In '97, 



O Harrisburg, du schoene stadt, 

Where legislators dwell, 
Where men of guile on jobs grow fat 

And statutes buy and sell. 
Your streets are paved with good, long green, 

Your founts with boodle Aow, 
And from your statesmanlike machine 

Reformers get no show. 

O Harrisburg, you know the way 

To close the public eye. 
Full oft upon election day 

You work that same old guy. 
To lead a better life you swear, 

And voters cry "Amen !" 
But just as soon as you get there 

You turn us down again. 



O Harrisburg, two years ago, 

You burned with honest zeal. 
You promised to reform, you know, 

This blessed commonweal. 
But now your weather eye you wink, 

And tell us with a sneer : 
"Yes, we're reformers, we don't think. 

Call round some other year." 

O Harrisburg, within your hand 

You hold the G. O. P. 
Its hopes and prospects you command, 

'Tis ruled by your decree. 
And at the next election-tide, 

Oh, say, perfidious town, 
How can you then the record hide 

That drags the party down ? 

O Harrisburg, your boodlers rush 

In squadrons and brigades. 
To-day they all are in the push 

And each the cash box raids. 
Strong men must groan and women weep 

This carnival to see, 
And Democrats prepare to sweep 

From earth the G. O. P. 

O Harrisburg, du schoene stadt, 

The state would plan and scheme 
To sink you, if it knew what's what. 

In Susquehanna's stream. 
And honest men upon the bank 

In pray'rful style would kneel, 
And cry together "Gott sei Dank'' — 

That's how the people feel. 



Theology Up to Date. 

In the town that's known to many 
By the name of Allegheny, 
So recorded in its charter, 
There's a far-famed pious quarter, 
Where the spectacled scholastic 
Under regulations drastic 
Cut out for a theologian 
Toils and struggles like a Trojan 
And by light of midnight taper 
Feeds on book and pen and paper. 

Dominies severely ruling 
Carry on the work of schooling. 
Now in phrases finely rounded 
Puzzling doctrines are expounded. 
Now baldheaded old ascetics 
Drill the class in homiletics 
Or the souls of students harrow 
With old P. Virgilius Maro, 
Homer, Livy and, for ballast, 
Caesar, Cicero and Sallust. 

All the young men, wearing glasses, 

In their rooms or in their classes 

Are required to lead a level 

vSort of life and shun the d — 1. 

Laws more harsh than those of Draco 

Smite the user of tobacco. 

Or the scamp who in a sly way 

Winks at females on the highway. 

Each must be a truly good 'un 

And display a visage wooden. 

But — alas that any vandal 

Should promote so great a scandal ! — 



1 



Rumor says that, scorning rigid 
Rules and regulations frigid, 
Pious youths their virtue slacken 
And improper games fall back on; 
That by light of midnight tapers 
They indulge in worldly capers, 
Crying, free from ev'ry fetter, 
''Ante up, boys. Jacks or better." 

"Jacks or better!" — Moral science 
Shudders at the bold defiance ; 
Meek theology goes under, 
Homiletics fall asunder, 
Seeing thus scholastics trample 
On all precept and example. 
And deport themselves as jaunty 
Followers of penny ante. 
Ah, 'tis sinful ways they grope in 
When the festive jackpot's open. 

Haste, then, dominies. Oh, hasten 
To rebuke and eke to chasten. 
Jump upon the faithless sinner 
Who comes out a four-time winner. 
And when outraged virtue crushes 
Houses full and bobtailed flushes 
Then, perchance, in Allegheny 
Satan will be "not so many." 
Now, if you'd completely daze 'em, 
See the scalawasrs and raise 'em. 



To an Old Umbrella. 

Hail, old umbrella! Tempest-scarred 

And wobbly as thou art, 
One cannot help but view thee, pard. 

With kindliness of heart. 

56 




Although thy ribs are out of gear, 
Although thy coat is torn, 

For thee there is no covert sneer. 
No epithet of scorn. 

For in thy old age, thou art proof 
Against the itching hands 

That somehow ne'er can hold aloof 
From one's umbrella-stands. 

In railway trains thou mayst be left 
Untouched by those that loot. 

Thy owner cannot be bereft 
Of thee, old parachute. 

If thou wert made of silken stuff, 
With silver mountings gay, 

Thieves could not hurry fast enough 
To carry thee away. 

But, old ''umbrell," the duty's thine 

To hold thy place as yet. 
To travel with us when 'tis fine 

And vanish when 'tis wet. 

At home in leisure thou shalt lie 
When rain begins to pour, 

But when there is a cloudless sky, 
Be always to the fore. 

Such is thy custom, aged gamp — 

With innocence demure, 
To hide thyself in weather damp 

And hold a sinecure. 

But. bless thy ancient heart, why not 
Thus slumber on the shelf? 

If we were an "umbrell," that's what 
We'd like to do ourself. 

67 



Mary's Garden 



Mary had a garden patch, 

It measured two by four ; 
She was a floral amateur, 

Just this and nothing more. 
She had some little garden tools, 

A spade, a rake, a hoe. 
And ev'ry seed that Mary sowed 

Was certain not to grow. 

A seedsman heard of Mary's fad ; 

He grinned a wicked grin 
And sent her gorgeous catalogues 

With colored plates therein. 
The lily and the queenly rose, 

Geraniums red and white 
Grew lavishly on ev'ry page 

To Mary's great delight. 

And there were dahlias many-hued, 

Verbenas, pansies, stocks. 
Chrysanthemums and marguerites 

And tow'ring hollyhocks. 
The tulip and the hyacinth, 

The castor bean so tall. 
Quoth Mary, "These are out of sight," 

I've got to have 'em all." 

Soon ev'ry train and ev'ry mail 

Brought in a precious freight 
Of floral things that Mary thought 

She'd neatly propagate. 
And soon with hoe and rake and spade 

She delved and dug and scratched ; 
"I'll have a garden," Mary said, 

"That can't on earth be matched." 

58 



But fortune on poor mortals oft 

Is predisposed to frown; 
It proved that Mary's choicest bulbs 

Were planted upside down. 
Her finest seeds — ^just think of this ? — 

'Twould make an angel weep — 
Grew not at all because they had 

Been buried three feet deep. 

The plants she purchased ready made 

Took sick and pined away; 
Somehow the soil that Mary used 

Set everything astray. 
And when the gayest ones were gone, 

For reasons unexplained, 
Ten million bugs came prancing 'round 

And ate up what remained. 

At this the maid threw up her hands, 

She'd done the best she could ; 
But now she yielded and her tools 

Were used for kindling wood. 
And if she ever should again 

Attempt the floral lay, 
She'll hunt some German gard'ner up 

And hire him by the day. 



At the Art Gallery. 

Now the crowd with expectancy eager, 

And burning desire in its heart. 
Presses onward, resolved to beleaguer 

Carnegie's great temple of art. 
A truce to malevolent strictures, 

A truce to foul jealousy's taint, 
While the mob is turned loose on the pictures 

And revels sublimely in paint. 



There are critics, of course, pompous fellows, 

Descanting with loud "haws" and *'hems," 
On the blues and the reds and the yellows 

In exquisite classical gems. 
Each of talent at home is a spurner; 

Thereat they consumedly scoff 
And they rave over Landseer and Turner 

And RulDens, and won't be called off. 

But the common unlettered '*Hoi Polloi" 

Enjoy ev'ry canvas in sight. 
They find Rembrandt uncommonly jolly 

And Vandyck a source of delight. 
They give way; to the witching concoctions 

Of Whistler and Bouguereau, too, 
And go wild over local productions 

And never once know which is who. 

Tell them not about tints ineffective, 

And ill-managed shadows and lights. 
Don't bore them by talking perspective, 

They care not to soar to such heights. 
Please keep mum on Pre-Raphaelite schooling 

And Renaissance methods, unless 
With a buzz-saw y^ou're bent upon fooling. 

And carry the thing to excess. 

No, let folks neither skilled nor presuming. 

Just follow the catalogue's lead. 
And read up on each masterpiece blpoming 

Without to the source giving heed. 
For the acme of popular pleasure, 

Unmarr'd by a drawback or hitch, 
Is to view each pictorial treasure 

And not know the t'other from which. 



fiO 



Bolting Time 



''Bolt, bolt, bolt!" 

'Tis the universal cry, 
And the faction that can't get a strangle "holt" 

Is sure the plan to try. 

The silver-gilt Prohib 

Is first to fly the track. 
You can tell from the cut of his beaming jib 

That he'll never again come back. 

Don't talk to him of rum, 

Of the soul-destroying cup. 
He is pounding his toy financial drum 

And won't be bottled up. 

And the stately schooners flit 

For a nickel across the bar, 
But Prohibition in twain is split 

And has lost its guiding star. 

St. John, the Kansan sleek. 

Triumphant leads the way. 
He carries a tempting silver brick 

To lead the Prohibs astray. 

"Heed not the drinking horn. 

But come with me," he cries. 
And the National party thus is born 

And dons a warlike guise. 

So, too, within the ranks 

Of older parties lurk 
A host of furious silver cranks 

Ready for ugly work. 

And the Grand Old Party quails 

As the antics queer it sees 
Of Bill McKinley trimming his sails 

To suit 'most any breeze. 

61 



*'Speak out, McKinley, speak," 

The Stalwarts wildly call. 
But in William's views there's never a leak, 

He will not speak at all. 

And it's oh for the fatal day 

When into St. Louis troop 
The delegates ! Fully convinced are they 

That somebody'll fly the coop. 

The Democrats, too, are pained. 

And Harrity can't but weep. 
For his followers, rather than be restrained, 

Will scatter abroad like sheep. 

And November's ides mav see, 

To the regulars' great dismay. 
Heretical mobs from parties three. 

All on the bolting lay. 

Bolt, bolt, bolt. 

Oh, what wonder that bosses "cuss?" 
For the good old days, with nary a jolt. 

May never come back to us. 



The Crime of '73. 

The truth we'll now unfold about 

The crime of '73. 
No more can men afford to doubt 

The crime of '73. 
All ills to which the flesh is heir. 
All sorts of worry, woe and care 
Result from that most foul affair. 

The crime of 'y^- 

What injures men that never toil? 

The crime of '73. 
What makes the blood of shirkers boil? 

The crime of '73. 

62 



I 



What causes folks to dodge their bills? 
What drives a few to tapping tills? 
What is the root of human ills ? 
The crime of '73. 

What was it led to Noah's flood ? 

The crime of '73. 
What laid out Caesar in his blood ? 

The crime of '73. 
What brought Ould Ireland 'neath the yoke 
Of England and her heart nigh broke. 
Oh, Pat, it was — this is no joke — 

The crime of '73. 

What caused the London plague and fire ? 

The crime of '73. 
What caused in France rebellion dire? 

The crime of '73. 
What did a hapless British king. 
Whose barons had him on a string, 
Repeal? It was that same old thing, 

The crime of '73. 

What led to Joan of Arc's crusade ? 

The crime of '73. 
What killed off Nolan's Light Brigade? 

The crime of '73. 
What was it that in Asia bred 
The cholera, which black ruin spread 
Abroad? Ah, 'twas that monster dread. 

The crime of '73. 

What is behind the Bryan boom? 

The crime of '73. 
What fills the Pops with wrath and gloom ? 

The crime of '73. 
And what impels irreverent folk 
With wicked merriment to choke? 
It is that source of m^ny a croak, 

The crime of '73. 

68 



The Return of the Crinoline. 



The hoopskirt is coming ; Dame Fashion's decree 
Is bringing it hither from over the sea ; 
And our girls, it appears, ('tis a thing to deplore) 
Must go back to the togs that their grandmothers wore. 

O woman, sweet woman ! how hard is thy case, 
To be thus, nolens volens, enlarged at the base. 
And, without an appreciable chance of escape, 
To be forced to assume a pyramidal shape. 

What wonder that youths of an amorous turn 
Breathe curses intense and with wrathfulness burn? 
Of woman's caprice they'll of course be the Hupes, 
For there's no hope of hugging a charmer in hoops. 

The waltz! — dear, oh dear, there's an end of all that; 
Never more can a chap feel the loud pit-a-pat 
Of a feminine heart on his shoulder so stout. 
Since the crinoline — infamous thing ! — bars him out. 

Alas for the sidewalk, already too small, 

A couple of ladies will cover it all. 

And the streets will be closed against masculine craft 

When the "gals" promenade every Saturday "aft." 

The street railway trav'ler who's sandwiched between 
Two females will yearn to decamp from the scene; 
Oh, 'tis easy to guess how a fellow must feel 
When environed with whalebone and girdled with steel. 

Is there no dress reformer, with gumption enough 

To inflict on this evil an early rebuff. 

And induce the dear girls, ere they've pushed things too 

far. 
To fall back upon trousers, or stay as they are ? 

If not, then, by Jove, let us males all unite 
In a prayer that Boreas will rise in his might 
And send forth such a blast, bringing woe and dismay, 
As will fill up the hoopskirts and blow 'em away. 

64 



When Brennen Quits the Chair. 



[Apropos of the Rumored Resignation of the Demo- 
cratic Chairman of Allegheny County, Pa.] 



The stars above will cease to shine 
When Brennen quits the chair; 
The bosses will their crowns resign 

When Brennen quits the chair. 

Our millionaires will help the poor, 

Physicians will not kill, but cure. 

And councils will be good and pure 

When Brennen quits the chair. 

Ed Bigelow will economize 

When Brennen quits the chair. 
The "Times" no more will deal in lies 

When Brennen quits the chair. 

The Coxey scheme will win the day, 

The month of June will come in May, 

And the Pope will join the A. P. A. 

When Brennen quits the chair. 

Bill Flinn will cease to legislate 

When Brennen quits the chair. 
Prohibs. will all get on a skate 

When Brennen quits the chair. 
Speak-easies will be free to run, 
Installment men will cease to dun, 
The moon will overpower the sun 
When Brennen quits the chair. 



The traction roads will fares reduce 

When Brennen quits the chair. 
Saloons will sell no lightning juice 
When Brennen quits the chair. 
Defunct will be the coupon fake, 
G. Cleveland will free trade forsake, 
And "pugs" will fight without a stake 
When Brennen quits the chair. 



Old Prob the truth will always tell 
When Brennen quits the chair. 

Brazilians won't again rebel 
When Brennen quits the chair. 

No dude will smoke a cigarette, 

Phil Flinn on candidates won't bet 

And water won't be very wet 
When Brennen quits the chair. 

John Larkin will with Sipe agree 
When Brennen quits the chair. 
The British will set Ireland free 

When Brennen quits the chair. 

Herr Most will wash his hairy face, 

The "Leader" won't be pressed for space 

And Breckinridge will win his case 

When Brennen quits the chair. 

The south will have no lynching mobs 

When Brennen quits the chair. 
B. Mullen will resign his jobs 

When Brennen quits the chair. 
Led on by Billy's action rash, 
The universe, with awful crash, 
Will split apart and go to smash 
When Brennen quits the chair. 



The Cycling Age. 

All the world these days is riding 

On a wheel. 
To and fro mankind is sliding 

On a wheel. 
Universal the divorce is 
From the thrall of mules and horses, 
And the wise man swiftly courses 

On a wheel. 

Kings and princes do their ruling 

On a wheel. 
Children go to get their schooling 

On a wheel. 
Pedagogues who give instructions 
In geometry and fluxions 
Reach conclusions and deductions 

On a wheel. 

Preachers hurry to their preaching 

On a wheel. 
Public speakers do their ''speeching" 

On a wheel. 
Babies on the bottle feeding 
Nurses' care no more are needing, 
For we let 'em go a-speeding 

On a wheel. 

Painters dally with their palettes 

On a wheel. 
Politicians purchase ballots 

On a wheel. 
Poets, careless of contusions, 
Nurse their fancies and illusions 
And produce their swift effusions 

On a wheel. 

f)7 



Architects their plans unravel 

On a wheel. 
Moderators swing the gavel 

*'On a wheel. 
Pitchers practice curves deceiving, 
Novelists, when plots they're weaving. 
Peg along, with bosoms heaving, 

On a wheel. 

Concert singers take to trilling 

On a w^heel. 
Weyler does his daily killing 

On a wheel. 
And McKinley with a knowing 
Wink foresees good fortune flowing, 
When all things ahead are going 

On a wheel. 

Coppers chas^^ the bold law-breaker 

On a wheel. 
"Stiffs" hunt up the undertaker 

On a wheel. 
Bargain hunters go a-jewing, 
Lovers in their pristine wooing 
Do their billing and their cooing 

On a wheel. 

Yes, life's worth the living only 

On a wheef. 
No one's helpless, sad or lonely 

On a wheel. 
Then let's hope, to end the story, 
That we'll all be hunky-dory 
And go scorching off to glory 

On a wheel. 



George and the Hatchet. 

Once more 'tis here, that famous date 
Whereon the birth we celebrate 
Of him who, howsoe'er he'd try, 
Could never, never tell a lie — 
Our nation's noblest, biggest gun. 
The great and good G. Washington. 

Great was the joy when first to Truth 

George pledged himself in early youth. 

Before that time his parents had 

No special reverence for the lad. 

''Boys will be boys," they said, and guessed 

That George might yarn like all the rest. 

Now George was much aggrieved to know 

That people should regard him so. 

And hence he watched his chance to make 

Correction of the odd mistake. 

''Zounds !" cried the lad, "I'll prove some day 

That morally I am O. K." 

It chanced that one fine Christmas morn 
(Seven years had passed since George was born), 
Chriskingle down the chimney slid 
And left a hatchet for the kid. 
'Twas small, but chroniclers agree 
That it was famous cutlery. 

"Aha !" said George when he awoke. 
"Once more that old Chriskingle joke. 
'Twas father that put up the tax 
To purchase this incipient ax, 
But punished for his trick he'll he : 
I'll chop his fav'rite cherry tree," 

Thus saying, George went forth and plaved 
Sad havoc with his keen-edged blade. 
And soon that priceless cherry stood 
A shapeless mass of kindling wood. 
"Its place" quotli he, "they'll hardly fill. 
It cost a twenty dollar bill." 

f.9 



Meanwhile the elder Washington 
Unto the spot had traced his son. 
"Unhappy youth" he howled, "I see 
That someone's felled my priceless tree. 
And from your hatchet, plain to view, 
I'm reasonably sure 'twas You," 



"Father," said George, "I must confess 

You've struck it at a single guess. 

But touch me not. Learn now with shame, 

I've tumbled to your Christmas game. 

Mark my example. Dad, and try 

Like Me to NEVER tell a lie." 



The words struck home. The old man said, 
"You're right, my boy. Great head, great head. 
'Tis very clear that, as you state, 
You can't and v^^on't prevaricate." 
And thus wound up the great event 
That made G. Wash our President. 



Plain William 



In his modest home at Canton, that blessed Buckeye 
town. 
Where pilgrims go to worship at his shrine. 
Plain William sits a-waiting for the presidential crown 

Which comes to him, you know, by right divine. 
At St. Louis they have named him with a glorious 
hurrah. 
And committeemen will wait on him to-day 
To inform him of his triumph, and before the boys with- 
draw 
In tones Napoleonic he will say : 

Refrain. 

70 



"Just tell 'em that you saw me, and they will know the 
rest, 

Just tell 'em 1 was looking well, you know, 
Just tell 'em you surprised me, and the merry, merry jest 

Will please 'em as it did long, long ago." 

The major has a Fireside. A picture of the same 

Is shown in ev'ry journal up-to-date. 
The reason that 'tis utilized is simply to proclaim 

That William is domestically straight. 
At that dear old chimney corner, with associations 
sweet. 

He will stand with swelling heart and flashing eye. 
And in simple pious language, free from semblance of 
deceit, 

To the notifying speeches he'll reply : 

Ref : "Just tell 'em that you saw me," etc. 

And William has relations. They're females ev'ry one — 

Romantically guiding his career. 
Historians inform us that when daily toil is done, 

He fondly turns to gentle woman's sphere. 
Ev'ry mention of this winning trait, so rare in public 
men. 

Wins applause, and so in language soft and fond, 
The committee will refer to it successfully, and then 

The Plain One will immediately respond : 

Ref: "Just tell 'em that you saw me," etc. 

There are many kicking citizens, who oftentimes pre- 
tend 

That presidential aspirants should speak 
Unevasively and plainly, making clear how they intend 

To act, if chosen to the place they seek. 
So it may be said to William, "Will you drop the silver 
craze 

And hoist the honest money flag at once?" 
Whereupon the modest hero on the wall will fix his gaze 

And murmur the appropriate response: 

Ref: "Just tell 'em that you saw me," etc. 

71 



In November 'twill be settled whether William gets the 
plum 
Or before the rabid enemy shall fall. 
In the latter case 'tis understood that ruin's bound to 
come, 
And play the very mischief with us all. 
But no matter what the outcome is, we'll ne'er forget 
the day 
When at Canton, with admirers grouped around. 
That committee said to William, "Take the nomination, 
pray," 
And he replied with no uncertain sound: 
Ref : "Just tell 'em that you saw me," etc. 



Nansen 



In the European region 
Tenanted by folks Norwegian, 
Dwelt a youth of lore prolific, 
Steeped in knowledge scientific. 
Nansen — so his name is written — 
With the polar craze was smitten ; 
Days and nights he passed in dreaming, 
Plotting, planning, deeply scheming. 
Ceasing not the hope to cherish 
That he'd find the Pole or perish. 

One fine day the King of Norway 
Loafing at the palace doorway, 
Noted Nansen, darkly musing 
O'er his plans of polar cruising, 
And the monarch philanthropic 
Braced him on his favorite topic. 
''Ah, my liege," said Nansen sadly, 
''Cash I need and need it badly." 
"Tut !" the king said. "I'll befriend you 
To the blamed old Pole I'll send you." 

72 



Soon a ship, the Fram, was ready, 
Well-built, solid, stout and steady; 
And with captain, mate and bos'n 
Duly used to being frozen, 
Nansen sailed away rejoicing 
Praise for good King Oscar voicing. 
**Soon," he said, "in matters polar 
I shall be a true high roller, 
And — oh, prospect full of rapture ! 
Easily the Pole I'll capture. 

On he kept a-sailing, sailing, 
Where the whalers go a-whaling, 
Where the sealers go a-sealing 
'Mid perpetual congealing. 
Where when fields of ice are growing 
Esquimaux go forth a-"mauing." 
Where, a ton of clothing wearing. 
White bear hunters go a-bearing, 
And in advertising phrase he 
Murmured *'This Great Sail's a Daisy." 

Finally his gallant vessel 
Had with icebergs huge to wrestle 
And the passageway to close up, 
Ev'rything around him froze up. 
No more laughed his sailors gladly; 
"*Tis a frost," they whispered sadly. 

" it all," said Nanse profanely, 

"Is my trip to wind up vainly? 
Never. Fate may seek to balk it, 
But by all the gods, I'll walk it." 

Forth he skipped and walked with vigor, 
Heeding not the season's rigor ; 
Walked and walked the ice fields over, 
Yet no pole could he discover. 
Not the smallest piece of timber 



Showed itself. So tired and limber 
After many days, the hero, 
At a point far under zero. 
Struck his flag, with anger burning 
And resolved on home returning. 

Homeward then he wandered, wandered. 
Zigzagged, circled and meandered. 
Lost himself and woe hung round him 
When a cruising vessel found him. 
*'How's the Pole?" they asked him smiling 
In a tone of voice beguiling. 
But — this thing there's no romance in — 
"Blank, blank, blank the Pole," said Nansen. 



Marching Through Cuba 



Bring the good old bugle, boys, that's long been laid 

away. 
As she rang out years ago, so let'er ring to-day. 
To the martial tunes of yore we'll rally to the fray, 
As we go marching thro' Cuba. 

Chorus : 

Hurrah, Hurrah! we'll sound the jubilee, 
When Cuba's sons from tyrant thrall are free. 
Blanco and his cutthroat band we'll drive across the sea, 
As we go marching thro' Cuba. 

Gives us "Yankee Doodle," which in early days inspired 
Gallant patriotic hearts with hope of freedom fired. 
Blanco, when he hears the strain, will feel exceeding 
tired, 
As we go marching thro' Cuba. 

Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 

74 



Give us, while the drummers beat a glorious tattoo, 
Stirring "Hail Columbia," and the old "Red, White 

and Blue." 
At the very sound of 'em the Dons will hide from view. 
As we go marching thro' Cuba. 

Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 

Give us "Rally Round the Flag," and while we jest at 

scars 
Let us have the Banner that is spangled o'er with stars, 
Telling us the glory of our soldiers and Jack Tars, 
As we go marching thro' Cuba. 

Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 

Top 'er off with "Dixie," which to all men will attest 
That the North and South are hand in hand and breast 

to breast. 
Sending forth unitedly their bravest and their best, 
As we go marching thro' Cuba. 

Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 

Soon the thrilling echoes of these tunes will penetrate 
To the heart of old Madrid and to her palace gate. 
Get up, then, ye Dons, and "git" before it is too late, 
As we go marching thro' Cuba. 

Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 



Casablanca Redivivus, 



The Boy, the Oratoric Boy, 
Stood on the burning deck 

And viewed with signs of fiendish joy 
The Democratic wreck. 



Around him fast and fiercely burned 

The old Jacksonian craft. 
Her ropes and spars to ashes turned 

Afore and eke abaft. 

What lit the terror-breeding fire ? 

What set the ship ablaze ? 
Alas for the misfortune dire! — 

It was the silver craze. 

Amid it all the Boy stood forth 

And said with flashing eye : 
''Call fifty cents a dollar's worth, 

Or at my post I'll die.'' 

In vain Jacksonians called to him 

To quit the scene of woe. 
He held his ground, stern-faced and grim 

The Youngster would not go. 

'Troud youth," the old-time leaders said, 
'*To swift demise you're doomed." 

But still the Youth with bulging head 
Stood there to be consumed. 

'Tm from the surging Platte," said he, 

*'Vm fresh from Omaha, 
And, oh, I'll shout for silver free 

Clear to Gehenna's maw." 

The fire raged on. Its angry glow 

Told of Destroying Fate. 
The boy stuck fast. He would not go ; 

He was a candidate. 

Soon one by one the older hands 
Among the good ship's crew, 

Slipped off, unmindful of commands. 
In lifeboats, staunch and true. 



There still remained a handful small 

Around the nervy Lad. 
The silver craze had made 'em all 

Stark, staring, raving mad. 

And so, while flames lit up the sky, 

They danced a wild cancan. 
And screamed: "The old ship we'll stand by 

And Bryan is our man." 

Soon burns the fire. Oh, will that Child 

In ashes yet be laid ? 
Ask of the winds that make up wild 

Bill Bryan's stock-in-trade. 



Dewey 



Cool as a crystal chunk of ice 

Is Dewey. 
No need of warning or advice 

For Dewey. 
No foreign emperor or king 
His funny tricks may haply spring, 
For there, prepared for ev'rything. 

Is Dewey. 

Three months ago but few had heard 

Of Dewey; 
Small public notice was conferred 

On Dewey. 
No one to howls of joy gave vent 
When to the far-off Orient 
The first commands of war were sent 

For Dewey. 



M 



McKinley's words were short and sweet 

To Dewey: 
"Go forth and smash the Spanish fleet, 

Friend Dewey." 
Did Dewey falter? Did he pause? 
Or hesitate from any cause? 
Nay. Into Ruin's very jaws 

Went Dewey. 

But Ruin somehow failed to fall 

On Dewey. 
Success was at the beck and call 

Of Dewey. 
Across explosive mines he skipped 
And Spanish ships to pieces ripped. 
Teetotally the Dons were whipped 

By Dewey. 

At first there were no troops to stand 

By Dewey, 
But still like iron was the hand 

Of Dewey. 
And when the Germans thought it cute 
His regulations to dispute, 
" Lie down, ye terriers, or Til shoot." 

Said Dewey. 

If all commanders ruled the seas 

Like Dewey, 
All round we'd boss things with the ease 

Of Dewey. 
But bless you! while of sea dogs grim 
And brave our stock is nowise slim, 
The world can hold but one Uke him, 

One Dewey. 



78 



The Merry Month of June. 

Oh, the frost is on the dahlias and the rosebud is n. g. ; 
The nascent peach sustains a chill and dies upon the tree ; 
The birds abandon melody and mournful dirges croon, 
Hoarsely hailing the arrival of the "merry month of 
June." 

Fires that long have been extinguished are rekindled 

with a sigh. 
And grate screens are abandoned till the sweeter by- 

and by. 
Hot toddy strikes the spot again, and cough drops are 

a boon 
To pneumonia-stricken wretches in the "merry month 

of June." 

See the maiden in the shirtwaist. She has reason to 

repine. 
A seriatim course of chills is trav'ling down her spine. 
She sneezes and she wheezes and they'll plant her pretty 

soon 
If she doesn't wear her flannels in the "merry month of 

June." 

Mark that hectic looking citizen with pinched and 

hollow jaw. 
He was the very first to wear a hat of Mackinaw. 
He's looking now for rock-and-rye, and breathes in each 

saloon 
Dark and dismal imprecations on the "merry month of 

June." 

On the public highway still we see a visage worn and 

wan; 
It is that super-previous lad, the hanky-panky man. 
"I-i-scream !" the dismal utterance is sadly out of tune 
With the frostiness that permeates the "merry month 

of June." 

79 



Panic seizes on the churches, and the Sunday schools 

are grieved 
To think that by the weather man they thus should be 

deceived. 
Methinks 'twere better far to be a dog and bay the moon 
Than to lay the ropes for picnics in the "merry month 

of June." 

Ask the railroads what they think of it. They'll tell you 

that the Fates 
Are down on summer traveling at cheap excursion rates. 
With wreckage of their brightest plans their lines are 

thickly strewn, 
And they shudder at the advent of the "merry month of 

June." 

Matrimony is the caper in the early summer time; 
Erotic poets sing of it in ev'ry sort of rhyme. 
But what's the use of poetry when lovers cease to spoon 
And fall back on pills and powders in the "merry month 
of June." 

To the bow-wows we are going ; that's a sure and certain 

thing; 
We haven't any summer and we haven't any spring. 
Then, prithee, Mr. Weather Man, confer on us a boon 
And just jolt the sun a little in this "merry month of 

June." ' 



The Circus Parade. 

Circus in town. See 'em running, 

The youngsters with wings on their feet. 
When the pageant breaks loose on the street 
In splendor and majesty stunning. 
They're certainly doing it brown. 
Circus in town. 



Circus in town. Many-tinted 
And brilliantly gilt are the cars 
Which princes and grand dukes and czars 
Have gazed on with pleasure unstinted 
And never a trace of a frown. 
Circus in town. 



Circus in town. The musicians 
Ahead of the gay caravan 
Keep a-pounding out ''El Capitan" 
And "All Coons," and with no intermissions 
The noise of the highway they drown. 
Circus in town. 



Circus in town. In their cages 
The wildest of beasts move along; 
Lions glare at the onlooking throng, 
And the tiger ferociously rages. 

He'd like to gulp somebody down. 
Circus in town. 



Circus in town. Here come creeping 
The elephants, massive to view ; 
They're a thick-skinned and slow-going crew, 
And they carry their trunks for safe keeping, 
And — ha! ha! — there's a rollicking clown. 
Circus in town. 



Circus in town. Lady riders 
In fairy-like tarlatan clothes 
Are posing and each in her pose 
Much resembles a pair of dividers 

Dressed up in a fractional gown. 
Circus in town. 

81 



Circus in town. See the juggling 
And tumbling and other such feats, 
All performed in the march o'er the streets; 
And the populace madly is struggling 
The artists with glory to crown. 
Circus in town. 



Circus in town. 'Tis a magnet 
Attracting the young and the old, 
And the wise and the fair and the bold, 
Or a sort of omnipotent drag-net. 
No bounds to its royal renown. 
Circus in town. 



Spring. 



In the spring the little birdies 

From their southern quarters come; 
In the spring the young man's fancy 

Lightly turns to coats of gum; 
In the spring the cooing dovelets 

Don their brightest burnished suits ; 
In the spring the population 

Hoists a million umbrachutes. 

In the spring the blithesome rabbit 

O'er the greensward gaily scoots; 
In the spring suburban dwellers 

Don extensive rubber boots; 
In the spring the brooks and streamlets 

Prattle with a gleeful ''prat;" 
In the spring the sad policeman 

Glow'rs beneath an oilskin hat. 

8S 



I 
I 



In the spring the sugar maple 

Lets its stored-up sweetness slip; 
In the spring the doctors revel 

In the sudden spread of grip; 
In the spring, with colors radiant, 

Butterflies begin to whizz ; 
In the spring old residenters 

Double up with "rheumatiz." 



In the spring the violet modest 

Lifts her head and peeps about ; 
In the spring the rivers rising 

Seize the chance to flood us out ; 
In the spring the farmer's offspring 

Scour the woods for sassafras; 
In the spring the thrifty housewife 

Shuts down on the natural gas. 



In the spring the fruitful orchard 

Puts forth many a leaf and bud; 
In the spring the sturdy plowman 

Plows profanely through the mud; 
In the spring the earth is full of 

Light and life and hope and cheer ; 
In the spring the cemetery 

Does the bus'ness of the year. 



In the spring the heart of Nature 

Swells with feelings of good will; 
In the spring the stoutest infant 

Baffles the physician's skill ; 
In the spring — well, talk of wetness ! 

Weather men don't do a thing. 
Pouring, drizzling, soaking, seeping — 

That's your size, O gentle Spring. 

83 



Philhellenic. 

Up, up, ye Greek societies that dwell in college halls, 
And gird ye on your weapons, for duty loudly calls. 
No more blow-outs and banquets. The obligation's 

strict 
To live up to your lettered names until the Turk is 

licked. 

Up, up Phi Gamma Epsilon. Go forth to do or die. 
Let not the world, beholding you, look black and say, 

"Oh, Phi!" 
But, breathing to Olympian ones a pray'r in classic 

strain, 
Go forth to show that alphabetic names are not in vain. 

Up, up. Pi Kappa. Now's the time for arming 

Kap-a-pie. 
Into the ring your castor you've simply got to shy. 
And where the tide of Moslem steel is seen to surge and 

swell, 
Pile in, lads, and stampede 'em with a good old college 

yell. 

Up, up, O Gamma Delta, nor fail to understand 

That to your members Providence has dealt-a fighting 

hand. 
No use to frame excuses. The same must needs be 

weak, 
For bless you, sirs, talk as you will, your very name is 

Greek. 

Aye faith. There is no way to dodge the obligation 

stern 
That rests on our Greek letter men their warlike spurs 

to earn. 
From Alpha down to Omega, the whole caboodle must 
Prance forth like Homer's warriors and whale the Turk 

or "bust." 

84 



For now's the time when Hellas needs the aid of lusty 

hands 
To shield her shrines traditional from bloody Moslem 

bands. 
And now she cries, ''Shall Moslems grim my fields and 

towns despoil, 
When alphabetic Grecians are thick on Yankee soil?" 

Not so. A million Alphas, Gammas, Sigmas, Chis and 

Taus, 
Will surely hasten to the front and boost the Grecian 

cause, 
And Turkey when she finds herself thus fearfully beset 
Will groan, "I never thought to fight the whole blamed 

alphabet." 



The Tenth Pennsylvania. 

Bring a thousand bugles, boys. Let's have another 

song. 
Thundered by a chorus that is half a million strong. 
Sing it to the boys whose fame to us and ours belong, 
Heroes of old Pennsylvania. 

Chorus. 

The Tenth ! The Tenth ! Sing out the glad refrain. 
The Tenth ! The Tenth ! Brave boys, they're home 

again. 
Back they come with glory that will never, never wane. 
Shout for the Tenth Pennsylvania ! 

When McKinley called for volunteers to cross the sea. 
Who advanced demanding in the foremost place to be? 
Who to join the battle made the first and strongest plea ? 
Who but the Tenth Pennsylvania? 

Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 



Off to far Manila went those noble hearts of oak, 
Longing for the conflict, with its blood and fire and 

smoke. 
Soon upon the foeman's ears their cry of battle broke. 
Loud spoke the Tenth Pennsylvania. 

Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 

Spaniards at the dead of night essayed a fierce attack. 
"Forward, boys!" cried Hawkins, "Drive the sneaking 

dagoes back !" 
Helter skelter went the Dons and quickly cleared the 
track, 

Chased by the Tenth Pennsylvania. 

Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 

When the Dons were routed and the Filipos broke out 
Aguinaldo's fighters found themselves in ev'ry bout 
Beaten and discomfited and scattered by the stout 
Rustlers from old Pennsylvania. 

Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 

Never did they lose a fight. Where'er their colors flew 
Victory was sure to come. The old Red, White and 

Blue 
Never waved o'er warriors more steadfast, brave and 

true 

Than those from old Pennsylvania. 

Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 

That's the song we have to sing. Let all, with might 

and main, 
Join in ripping out the glad and glorious refrain. 
Honoring the heroes that are with us once again. 
Glorious Tenth Pennsylvania. 

Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 



Infra "Dig." 



Are they long-sepultured Pawnees! 

Are they dead and buried Shawnees ? 
Are they slumb'ring Kickapoos? 

Are they Choctaws, gone to glory? 

Are they Blackfeet, famed in story? 
Are they Chippewas or Sioux ? 

Are they AHquippas haughty, 

Are they Hurons, wild and naughty? 
Are they Iroquois or Crees? 

Or — oh, horror ! — 'stead of red men, 

Are there only recent dead men 
In that moundlet of McKee's? 

In that pile of earth prolific, 

A. Carnegie's scientific 
Corps has delved these many day? 

'Spite of rain and of caloric, 

Scores of relics prehistoric 
They've been managing to raise. 

Bones they've spaded up in plenty. 

Skeletons — they number twenty — 
They have found beneath the trees. 

And the doctrine now is nourished. 

That an Indian village flourished 
In that moundlet of McKee's. 

But now comes the blatant scoffer, 

With strange evidence to offer, 
Contradicting Gerodette. 

"Friends," he says, ''Your work's indecent, 

That these upturned stiffs are recent, 
Any sum I'd like to bet." 

Then, with nothing to restrict him, 

He identifies each victim 
Just as easy as you please. 

And he demonstrates that very 

Like a modern cemetery 
Is that moundlet of McKee's. 

87 



''There's Wun Lung, who kept a laundry; 

Oh, he died of 'yaller jandry,' 
In the year of fifty-six. 

There's old Hans, the Dutch salooner, 

There's the old piano tuner. 
Whisky sent him all to sticks. 

There's a Dago, there's a 'naygur ;* 

To the fever and the ager 
We attribute their decease. 

Paddy Whack and Bill McCarty, 

All are in the Indian party 
In that moundlet of McKee's." 

Thus he speaks. A ghastly feeling 
O'er professors grave is stealing 

As the painful news they hear. 
Not a chief nor ancient prancer, 
To such names as these could answer. 

Oh, 'tis truly too severe. 

And one trembles when reflecting, 
That the wholesale resurrecting 

Of such recent chaps as these 
Leaves no way of hunting cover; 
We must bury 'em all over 

In that moundlet of McKee's. 



Hymn of the National Delegates. 

Bring the good old platform, boys, triumphantly along. 
Make it, as we used to make it, good and hot and strong. 
Let it be a corker, whether we are right or wrong, 

Strike hard and fast at St. Loo-ey. 
Hurrah, hurrah ! Our hearts are filled with pride. 
We're out for gold with — silver on the side. 
Just a little while from now the spoils we shall divide, 

That's why we meet at St. Loo-ey. 



Gentlemen disinguished ask to be our candidate ; 
Morton, Reed and Allison and Quay our pleasure wait, 
But McKinley's name already figures on the slate, 

He has the call at St. Loo-ey. 
Hurrah, hurrah ! McKinley's flag we fly. 
Hurrah, hurrah! We really don't know why. 
Anyhow we're booming Mac and no one can deny 

That's why w^e meet at St. Loo-ey. 

Have you heard of Hanna who commands McKinley's 

troops? 
Ev'rywhere the delegates w'ith ease and grace he scoops. 
When he opes his satchel there are wild McKinley 

whoops. 
Rending the air at St. Loo-ey. 
Hurrah, hurrah ! Let beaten rivals bark. 
Hurrah, hurrah ! We'll still be true to Mark. 
Ample is his barrel, boys, and (kindly keep it dark) 
That's why we meet at St. Loo-ey. 

Why do w^e go back on Reed and other leaders stout ? 
Why do w^e the noblest of our party chieftains flout ? 
Hang it ! That's a question we don't care to figure out ; 

Don't press the same at St. Loo-ey. 
Hurrah, hurrah ! We'll never, never flinch. 
Hurrah, hurrah ! We'll never yield an inch. 
We are for the candidate that has the richest cinch ; 

That's why w^e meet at St. Loo-ey. 

When the great convention and election, too, are o'er, 
Happiness and comfort for us rooters are in store. 
Hanna will provide for us forever, ever more, 

True to his vows at St. Loo-ey. 
Hurrah, hurrah ! The platform bring along. 
Hurrah, hurrah! Let's make 'er hot and strong. 
Till we're all in clover, boys, it won't be very long. 

That's why we meet at St. Loo-ey. 



Espanol. 



Step in, step in Senores, 

Make all we have your own, 
Receive 'mid bow'rs of Acres 

Our salutacion. 
A greeting in your lingo 

We'd spring with heart and soul 
Instanter, but, by jingo! 

No hablo Espanol. 

Step in, commerciales 

From blooming Uruguay, 
And Chile's hot tamales 

And Venezuelans gay. 
Some day perhaps you'll need us 

And meanwhile, on the whole. 
You are our bienvenidos; 

(How's that for Espanol?) 

Brazilians, do not linger; 

Peruvians, do not wait; 
Old Pitt with beck'ning finger 

Is standing at the gate. 
To welcome you he's had his 

Young men fill up the bowl. 
Then here's hospilidades — 

That's straight-out Espanol. 

Will anybody touch you 

While you're on Pittsburg ground? 
Caramba, sirs, non mucho. 

You all are safe and sound. 
A land of milk and honey 

Awaits you. 'Tis a goal 
To melt the corazone — 

See there. More Espanol. 

90 



Ah, Senors, when you've seen us, 

And riveted your gaze 
Upon our great molinos 

You can't withhold your praise. 
You can't go home and d — n us 

Or claim that we cajole 
For plaudits esperamos — 

Hurrah for Espanol! 

Then, waiter, fetch the biera. 

And fetch the vino, too; 
Let's pledge a toast sincera 

Unto hermanos true. 
Saludad, ev'ry brother, 

While Pittsburg has a roll 
To spend, let's take another — 

That style is Espanol. 



Inks. 

Far off upon a summit high 
A dazzling thing to human eye, 
The baseball pennant gaily waves, 
Beyond the reach of Pittsburg's braves, 

Methinks ; 
For have they not at Louisville 
Succumbed already to the skill; 
The deft and cunning dexter hand 
And curves they could not understand 

Of Inks? 

Ah, yes! One's blood must fairly boil 
To think that on Kentucky soil, 
Where ev'ry man to corn-juice sticks 
And loftily disdains to mix 

His drinks. 



Onr rustlers, deemed of splendid heft, 
Should let themselves get sadly left, 
Kerflummuxed, pounded, hammered, slashed, 
And totally to pieces smashed 
By Inks. 

Yet so they fared. They couldn't hit 
Nor even pitch a little bit; 
'Twas simply fatal to the nerves 
To see how Killen lost his curves 

And kinks, 
And how the rest, alarmed, surprised 
And one and all demoralized, 
Slid uselessly about the field, 
Threw up their hands and had to yield 

To Inks. 

All Louisville turned out to scream 
Its plaudits for the local team. 
Considering those Colonels dense 
To be of manly excellence 

The pinks; 
And sure enough their sanguine view 
To all appearances came true, 
For Louisville was ''out of sight" 
When Pittsburg's crowd was slaughtered quite 
By Inks. 

A plague on Inks ! It is a shame 
That one of his unseemly name — 
A name that smacks of blot and smear, 
A name suggesting very queer 

High jinks — 
Should stump us. Still the fact is there. 
That Pittsburg simply pawed the air 
Before this dandy, smeary chap. 
Poor pennant I 'Twill be grabbed mayhap 

By Inks. 

92 



J 



Albert Ed's Lament. 

I'm getting old and feeble; I'm a sporty boy no more. 

The elephant I do not care to see. 
I've let up a bit on baccarat; likewise on rouge-et-noir 

And the betting book has lost its charms for me. 
Ah, yes, I'm crawling up in years; my hair is getting 
gray; 

At 56, I'm stiff in ev'ry bone, 
But I have a little parent, who is built another way. 

She seems booked to sit forever on the throne. 

Refrain : 

She's a very ancient dame, but she stays there just the 
same; 

Such another wondrous case was ne\'er known. 
At the age of 78, she keeps up that same old gait. 

Oh, she's booked to sit forever on the throne. 

In my childhood people used to come and fondle Al- 
bert Ed. 
^'Noble youth," they'd say, "the time cannot be long, 
Till he wears a royal mantle and a crown upon his head, 

And supplies us with a reign that's hot and strong. 
But the years kept rolling onward and I still remained a 
prince. 
(Please excuse me while I step aside and groan). 
I've been nothing but a crownless heir apparent ever 
since 
To that little aged lady on the throne. 

Ref. — She's a very ancient dame, etc. 

Early manhood found me splurging in a very vivid style. 

Oh, I painted things the deepest carmine hue. 
And although my royal parent wouldn't let me touch 
her pile, 



I had coin to burn and spent it freely, too. 
Sage advisers said, ''Be virtuous." I answered ''No, 
indeed ; 

I intend to have a hot time of my own. 
'Twill be time enough to sober up whenever I succeed 

My perennial little parent on the throne." 

Ref. — She's a very ancient dame, etc. 

Middle age came on and found me getting in my merry 
licks, 

And I'd still be with the foremost in the swim, 
But you see a fellow cannot hold his own at fifty-six — 

Youthful high jinks are no longer good for him. 
So I'm gradually settling dowm, and upon this natal day 

Please regard me as a person who has sown 
All his wild oats and quite decently awaits the right of 
way 

From that little aged lady on the throne. 

Ref. — She's a very ancient dame, etc. 



Non Compos. 



Softly breathe it, gently break it. 

Do not rattle, do not scare 
Those that bear the news, but make it 

Easy for the world to bear. 
Oh, the cup of tribulation 

That must now be deeply quaffed ! 
Hear the mournful information : 

Paderewski has gone daft. 

Do you ask us who is Paddy ? 

Himniel ! Have you ne'er set eyes 
On that pretty, winsome laddie, 

Never heard him concertize ? 
If you have, you're bound to feel it 

Like a deadly sabre cut. 
Ah, good friends, we can't conceal it, 

Paderewski's off his nut. 

94 



Rondo and capriccioso, 

Scherzo and concerto grand, 
By this glorious virtuoso 

Were performed, to beat the band. 
Kings and princes howled approval 

When the ivories he'd thump. 
Now we witness his removal. 

Paderewski's off his chump. 

Oh, the tawny mane that crowned him ! 

Wondrous was the hair of Pad; 
High school maidens swooned around him, 

Spinsters saw him and went mad. 
One and all they threw him kisses, 

Sighing for a wild embrace. 
Ah, those disappointed misses ! — 

Paderewski's off his base. 

What came over Pad to queer him ? 

What occurred his mind to smash? 
Did the mob too loudly cheer him ? 

Was he overcome with cash ? 
Nay, it was the overpow'ring 

Rush of "gals" that cooked his goose. 
Thanks to womankind devouring, 

Paderewski's roof is loose. 

Take him to his gloomy prison; 

Hide away his yellow hair; 
Curb the symptoms strangely risen; 

Cover up the vacant stare. 
Hedge him round with watchers wary, 

Lest the mob should come and scoff. 
Poor old chap! He was too hairy, — 

That is why his trolley's off. 



'Listing. 



'Listing for the Philippines. 

Who's inclined to join? 
Plenty of hard knocks ahead, 

Precious little coin. 
Heavy gun and pack to lug ; 

Sky with fire aglow. 
Swelter, swelter all the time, 

Who's inclined to go ? 

'Listing for the Philippines. 

Weary is the tramp 
Through the jungle dense and dark 

Over bog and swamp. 
Mauser bullets flying round 

Try a fellow's nerve. 
Zip ! another one laid out. 

Who would like to serve ? 

'Listing for the Philippines. 

Always on the jump, 
Chasing "varmints" hidden in 

Ev'ry forest clump. 
One is killed and ten spring up. 

Fighting such a mob 
Seems a never-ending task. 

Say, who wants the job ? 

'Listing for the Philippines. 

Trenches ev'ry where 
Filled with dusky chaps that won't 

Do things on the square. 
Not a chance for villainous 

Deviltry they miss. 
Hard it is to smoke 'em out, 

Who'll go in for this ? 

96 



'Listing for the Philippines. 

Somehow, after all, 
Lines of sturdy patriots 

Answer to the call. 
Up to Uncle Sam they step ; 

Tell him with a grin, 
"We are ready any day. 

Kindly count us in." 

'Listing for the Philippines. 

For the stalwart son 
Of Columbia — happy dame ! — 

Terrors it has none. 
Where the Stars and Stripes are borne 

There in time of need 
Yankee boys are glad to go. 

Blessings on the breed ! 



Democracy's Love Feast. 



Lo, the tribesmen Democratic 
Once mercurial and erratic, 
Finally have ceased their fussing, 
'Ceased their snarling and their cussing, 
And from Temperancevillihaha, 
And from Allegheniawawa, 
And from Bayardstowniwiski, 
So Ho and Southsidiski, 
And from divers other regions 
Come the former hostile legions 
Saying: "Let us all be merry 
And the ax forever bury." 



No more on the warpath running 

Silver cranks for foes are gunning. 

No more in their war paint savage 

Do they fiercely wreck and ravage, 

Shouting in their guttural lingo, 

"Bryan is the stuff, by jingo!'* 

But with former hostiles joining 

They forsake their schemes of coining. 

Coining silver — thought audacious ! — 

At the wildest kind of ratios. 

Quoth each medicine man and sachem, 

"Make what coins you please. We'll take 

No more, shouting war cries horrid, 
And emitting cusswords torrid. 
Come with fierce determination 
Tribesmen of the Goldbug nation. 
Now, with bland and courteous greeting 
Ancient foemen they are meeting. 
And instead of scalp-locks hooking 
Elbows at the bar they're crooking. 
Jimclark blandly hails Pefoley, 
Fagan grasps the hand of Boley. 
No one kicks about preferment 
And the ax receives interment. 

Whence this marvel? How explain it? 

Can the tribes, forsooth, maintain it ? 

Can they always in subjection 

Keep the fires of disaffection, 

And behave each to the other 

Like a gentle, loving brother? 

Ask us not. This game new-fangled 

Leaves us quite non-plussed and tangled. 

Hardly can we yet conceive it 

Or accept it and believe it. 

Democrats no more asunder ! 

Boys, this is the world's eighth wonder. 



Turkey Day. 



One more glad turkey day 

Full of good cheer. 
Nowise a murky day 
Dismal and drear. 
Joyously, chipperly 
And Jack-the-Ripperly 
Keen knife and fork 
Cut out the heart of thee, 
Slashed ev'ry part of thee. 
Thanksgiving ''turk !'* 

Out of doors whistled 

The razor-edged blizzard, 
Indoors men wrestled 

With Pope's nose and gizzard. 
Ah, it was wreck to thee 
Right in the neck to thee, 

Swift to destroy, 
Came the unnerving knife. 
Aye, the deft carving knife 
Cleft thee, old boy. 

None stopped to muse on 

Thy youth when existence 
Took roseate hues on 
And Death at a distance 
Immense seemed to be. 
Hadst thou a family, tenderly dear to thee — 
Brothers and sisters and other ones near to thee? 
Had some romantic 
Hen-turkey paid frantic 
Devotion to thee? 
Nobody cared a red, 
Those on thy flesh that fed 
Were up in G. 



Utfa 



I 



Ah, lad, how easily 

Fate strikes the blow ! 
Oozily, greasily 

Thou wert laid low. 

Round thee light-yellery 
Bunches of celery 

Raised each its plume. 
Stuffing inside of thee; 
Gone was the pride of thee, 
Gone to the tomb. 



Olden folks fluffy-faced 
Toyed with thy corse. 
Juveniles puffy-faced, 

Large-mouthed and hoarse 
Smacked Hps and panted all ; 
Drumsticks they wanted all. 

Great was the fuss. 
'Twas a sad job for thee 
By a whole mob to be 
Eaten up thus. 



But from thy grave, O turk, 

Sardonic laughter 
Comes now. Thy heavy work 
Comes the day after. 

They that your flesh devoured, 
Used up and overpow'red, 

In desperation, 
Call in the grave M. D. 
Herein, O turk, we see 
Just reparation. 



I 



100 



Those New Year's Bills. 

Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills, 

Down ev'ry spine they send the chills. 

Scarce have the chimes, so crisp and clear, 

Rung in the new and smiling year 

Than ev'rywhere the mails convey 

Those short and sweet requests to pay. 

Most hearts with grief their advent fills. 

Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 

To homes where joy supreme has reigned. 

Where Christmas fun was unrestrained, 

Where all hands had a time immense 

And "blew themselves" at large expense. 

Where out of Santa's precious load 

A goodly store of presents flowed. 

Now comes the aftermath of ills, 

Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 

The parent fond who, coaxed and urged 

By wife and offspring, boldly splurged, 

Who, though the outlay blanched his hair, 

Went in for presents rich and rare, 

Now finds that he the cost must count 

And dig up soon a large amount. 

To him they're bitter, bitter pills, 

Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 

And there's the youth, of slender store, 

Whose boarding mistress trusts no more. 

"Young man," she says, "you're much inclined 

To travel fast, yet run behind. 

You ask a stay. 1 answer No. 

My fiat is, Pay up or go." 

And so he views, with whitening gills, 

Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 

101 



i 



Ah, sore the test of human grit 
When there's a postscript — 'Tlease remit,'^ 
Which means that those will sorrow sup 
Who do not promptly settle up. 
Then he that's short, in black despair. 
Sheds tears of blood and tears his hair. 
They warn us 'gainst the pace that kills. 
Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 



♦ 



But mark it well. The suff'rer now 

Takes on the spot a solemn vow 

That twelve months hence he'll not be rash 

But hold a store of saved-up cash. 

And this his mind at ease may set. 

Although such vows he'll soon forget. 

Next year, as now, they'll give him chills, 

Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 



A La Wilcox. 



Come, O Muse, and let us fashion, 
'Stead of songs and politicians, 
And of coarse and rank ambitions 

Just a little "pome" of passion. 

Let us sing Hke Ella Wheeler 
Wilcox of mankind's surrender 
To emotions sweet and tender. 

Warm is "El." Naught could congeal 'er. 



For such warbling there's a reason. 
Are we not — 'tis great to think of- 
Fairly trembling on the brink of 

Spring, the sentimental season? 



102 



And does Tennyson not tell us 
That the youth now daily, nightly, 
Lets his fancy revel lightly 

In amours and tangles jealous? 

Now the crow the air is sawing. 

Moving north. With pride he*s swelling. 
Soon he'll build his love a dwelling 

And a serenade he's cawing. 

Bluebirds whistle and the robin 

Hops around and none pursues him, 
For beneath his ruddy bosom 

Matrimonial hopes are throbbin'. 

Sunshine, wintry blasts disarming, 

Lights the landscape, rousing, cheering. 
Mother Earth, with visage clearing. 

To her fav'rite work is warming. 

And the poets and the various 

Seekers after joys romantic, 

Boil with inspiration frantic. 
Mark the rush of gay Lotharios. 

Lutes are tuned. Guitar and zither 
Sound a strain which tells it plainly 
That some youth — let's hope not vainly- 

Sighs — oh, would that he were with her ! 

Yes. Let Spring the great revealer 
Of men's hearts perform her duty 
At the shrine of Love and Beauty. 

Let us stand by Ella Wheeler. 

Say not that the hint is wicked. 

All that's not approved by Ella 

Is but ''leather and prunella." 
Passion, passion — that's the ticket. 

108 



The Plum Tree. 

A plum tree once in an orchard grew 

(Listen to my tale of woe.) 
And the plums it wore were of golden hue. 
*'This is elegant fruit," says M. S. Q. 
Matt Q. 
That's who. 
(Listen to my tale of woe.) 

Refrain : 

Oh, wait for election day. 
Some one then for those plums must pay. 
Ask who it is and the people say, 
''Matt Q. 
That's who." 
(Listen to my tale of woe.) 

Outside the fence stood a bank cashier. 

(Listen to my tale of woe.) 
Quoth he, "To me it would appear 
That paper and plums go together here." 
"They do," 
Says Q. 
(Listen to my tale of woe.) 

Ref. — Oh, wait for election day, etc. 



The Old Man winked. "Take a taste," says he. 

(Listen to my tale of woe.) 
If you'll help Son Dick and be true to me 
I'll be ready and willing to shake that tree. 
"That's true," 
Says Q. 
(Listen to my tale of woe.) 

Ref. — Oh, wait for election day, etc. 

104 



Alas for Stone, who would governor be. 

(Listen to my tale of woe.) 

For the spectral form of that same plum tree 

Makes his friends turn tail, and they groan and flee. 

Stone and Q. 

Feel blue. 

(Listen to my tale of woe.) 

Ref. — Oh, wait for election day, etc. 



In Allegheny. 



Hark to that old familiar click 

In Allegheny. 
Another gun has done the trick 

In Allegheny. 
Another mortal, tired of toil 
And grief upon earth's sordid soil, 
Has shuffled off this mortal coil 

In Allegheny. 

Who talks of joy and light and hope 

In Allegheny? 
What's that? Another dangling rope 

In Allegheny? 
Aye. aye, Horatio. 'Tis a fact: 
Once more poor Yorick, sorely rack'd, 
In spirit has performed the act 

In Allegheny ! 

Short is the span of human life 

In Allegheny. 
Right grimly gleams the butcher knife 

In Allegheny. 
A glint of steel, a groan, a tear. 
Another citizen — dear, dear! — 
Has slit himself "from ear to ear" 

In Allegheny. 

105 



Broad, deep and black the river flows 

In Allegheny. 
How nice therein to sink one's woes 

In Allegheny ! 
Bankrupt in pocket, full of booze, 
Off come hat, vest and coat and shoes, 
And one more resident they lose 

In Allegheny. 

Convenient is the poison store 

In Allegheny. 
Wide open stands the druggist's door 

In Allegheny. 
Heart aches and rude domestic spats. 
And jim-jams bred by frequent "bats" 
Lead oftentimes to "Rough on Rats" 

In Allegheny. 

Such is the normal daily round 

In Allegheny. 
A sudden death, a body found 

In Allegheny. 
A line of print, a "crowner's quest," — 
Ah, reader, 'tis no idle jest. 
To shuffle off men deem it best 

In Allegheny. 

What strange decree of Fate thus works 

In Allegheny? 
What suicidal demon lurks 

In Allegheny? 
We trow not, but some people say. 
That one devouring thought holds sway, 
To wit : the hope to get away 
From Allegheny. 



106 



The 'oo Model 



Invention marches onward, never dropping to the rear; 

New models of the bicycle it gives us every year. 

A man has scarcely bought his wheel and started in to 

blow 
When fresh improvements come along and quickly lay 

him low. 
But the biggest thing of all has yet to come along the 

pike. 
'Tis the chainless, wheelless, pedalless, seatless, handle- 

barless bike. 



Wherever scorchers meet and talk, with real warmth and 
zest 

You'll hear each one among 'em swear his wheel's the 
very best. 

This is a point of honor recognized the whole world o'er 

From Greenland's icy mountains unto farthest Singa- 
pore. 

Alas that some mechanic's skill the guns of all should 
spike 

With the chainless, wheelless, pedalless, seatless, handle- 
barless bike. 



Hill climbers are a boastful lot. They dearly love to show 
How easy 'tis to leave the feeble common herd below. 
With eyes that from their sockets start and veins that 

sorely swell 
They work their way up mountains and pretend to like 

it well. 
Oh, we'll all be climbing Alpine heights as quickly as we 

like 
With the chainless, wheelless, pedalless, seatless, handle- 

barless bike. 

107 



Talk about your century records ! They are good enough 

to-day, 
When bicycling is a heavy work upon a rough highway. 
But wait till 1900, O ye lads that loudly boast, 
And then 'twill be an easy thing to skip from coast to 

coast, 
Kor the very least among us will a gait of lightning strike 
With the chainless, wheelless, pedalless, seatless, handle- 

barless bike. 



The Jackaby. 



The Jackaby Frostlet from Nipaway Land 

Comes creeping, comes sneaking. 
(These lines are intended for babes, understand. 
And that's why in words of the infant school brand 

We're jabb'ring; not speaking). 
From Icetown he brings us a nice little freeze. 
And our noses get red and we sputter and sneeze 
While we watch the thermometer drop its degrees. 

'Tis falling. 'Tis leaking. 

The poor little flow'rets are in for it now; 

He'll soak 'em ; he'll rip 'em. 
No time for repentance to them he'll allow. 
For the Jackaby seems to have taken a vow 

To smite 'em ; to nip 'em. 
Geraniums and dahlias he hastes to attack. 
At morning you'll find them all withered and black. 
Oh, he can't be induced when he gets on their track 

To pass 'em, to skip 'em. 

The Jackaby goes for the hat built of straw, 

Now waning, now dying; 
And you'll see from his rippling and gurgling guffaw, 

He's laughing; he's guying. 

108 



The summer girls wilt and the summer boys flee ; 
That the weather's too chilly they all must agree. 
And a razor-edged breeze o'er the land and the sea 
Comes moaning, comes sighing. 



The Soda Founts stop. There's an end of the fizz 

So bracing, so cooling. 
Ice cream has departed. No time now there is 

For nonsense; for fooling. 
A magical uncle will now from his chest 
Produce the top-coat and the thick undervest. 
And the Jackaby thinks it an excellent jest. 

He's bossing; he*s ruling. 



Now what do you think of the Jackaby's work. 

So chilling, so blighting? 
He's surely a cruel, unmerciful Turk, 

Rampaging, affrighting. 
But next spring, if we chance to be living and well. 
We'll cast off the Jackaby's horrible spell. 
'Twill be our turn to laugh when that monster so fell 

We're downing; we're smiting. 



The Dinosaur, 



A dinosaur of extensive girth 

Sat in the bosom of Mother Earth. 

He was not pretty ; he was not neat ; 

For he measured in height full sixty feet, 

And he seemed when bared to the curious view, 

Like a mixture of frog and kangaroo. 

Oh, not for peace, but for cruel war 

Did Nature construct the dinosaur. 

109 



This dinosaur, we would have you know, 
Had died and petrified ages ago. 
Nerves and muscles and parchment hide 
Had all decayed when the monster died, 
And only his skeleton still sat there 
With changeless pose and a stony stare. 
And tambourines might rattle away. 
But never a word had Bones to say. 

And he mused as he sat on the glories great 
That marked the earth at an early date. 
He thought of the days when ev'ry beast 
Weighed a couple of hundred tons at least. 
When brutes that dwelt in the woodland bow'rs. 
Were tall as churches or light house tow'rs. 
All these had gone from this earthly sphere. 
And the dinosaur dropped a fossil tear. 

There came a day when the Indian red 

Trampled the sod o*er his poor old head. 

And dusky corpses around him lay 

As civilization blazed its way 

Through the western land. "This thing called War 

Is a new one on me," said the dinosaur, 

"And if civilization thus holds its own 

I am glad to be nought but a mass of stone." 

And finally one fine day there came 
A digger and delver, Holland his name. 
While spades and crowbars cheerily clanked. 
That dinosaur from his bed he yanked. 
And soon our Pittsburg folks will gaze 
On that strange survival of ancient days. 
And the dinosaur — well, he'll never know 
That he's down to the grade of a curio. 



no 



Hagenbeck's Visit. 



The king of zoo promoters in our city is on deck. 

He comes from far-off Hamburg and his name is Hagen- 

beck. 
He's here to visit Eddie, and his expert eyes he feasts 
Upon the local galaxy of foreign birds and beasts. 
Our Eddie plays the pilot with distinguished grace and 

ease 
For the highly honored visitor and this is what he sees : 



Whitewingus Paisleyensis, shining in the public view. 
Flycoppus Joeybrownus, with his plumage colored blue. 
The ringtailed flinflamingo, picking up the early worm, 
The Bonvon horse that gallops through his forty-second 

term. 
The Payrollus Magistris, up to ev'ry sort of trick, 
The docile little councilmanic monkey-on-a-stick. 
" Ton my word," says Mr. Hagenbeck, "the like I never 

knew 
Of the marvelous exhibits in the famous Pittsburg zoo." 



"Yes, yes," the visitor went on, " 'tis wonderful, indeed. 
Pray tell me. Brother Eddie, how these animals you 

feed?" 
"That's easy," answered Bigelow, "the softest kind of 

snaps 
Are fed to 'em and patronage is given out in scraps. 
And then, you see, we've lobbies where they loaf around 

and browse 
And nice protected club rooms where each evening they 

carouse. 
And in the summer holidays we have a nice menu 
Of Atlantic City passes which we pass around our zoo." 

Ill 



"I see, I see," says Hagenbeck. "Now tell me if you 

please. 
Whence comes the flow of boodle for expenses such as 

these." 
"Why, bless you, man, quoth Eddie, 'Tittsburg doesn't 

care a durn 
For such small considerations. We have money here 

to burn. 
And even when the cash runs out, which happens ev'ry 

year, 
We hit the banks for millions, which instanter disappear. 
No other town on earth is so intelligently bossed; 
We continually blow ourselves and never count the 



At this a loud approving roar went up from ev'ry cage 
Except from one where sounds were heard of sorrow 

mixed with rage. 
There dwelt the wild reformeros and 'twixt his teeth he 

said, 
"If ever I get loose, then lud-a-mercy on you, Ed." 
"Don't mind him, Mr. Hagenbeck," said Edde, "Fm 

ashamed 
To own that still we harbor here a specimen untamed." 



Now Hagenbeck, delighted with the wonders that he 

saw. 
Declares we must enlarge the zoo and add to its eclat 
And so he says he'll search the globe and see if he can 

find 
Some novelties and marvels of an interesting kind. 
And with this bland assurance to our town he bids Adieu 
And goes back to startle Hamburg with his tales of Ed- 
die's zoo. 



112 



Our Amazons. 



'Tis not the genus masculine 

Alone that yearns for fighting, 
For cannon's roar and charging line, 

The Spaniards boldly smiting. 
Likewise to smell the battle's smoke 

On plaza and on prado 
Come forth the gentle women folk 

Of far-off Colorado. 

On, on they come in pow'rful force ; 

Their zeal each day grows larger. 
"To arms !" they cry. "A horse ! a horse ! 

Our kingdom for a charger . 
No common infantry are we, 

In war to be discounted. 
But furious cavaliers we'll be 

On blooded prancers mounted." 

And so without the least dismay 

Nor heeding grewsome rumors 
They don, expectant of the fray, 

Their neatest shot-proof bloomers. 
Not theirs to flinch or hesitate 

Upon the path of glory. 
They put their soldier hats on straight 

And all is hunky-dory. 

With carbine primed, with lance in rest 

And hat-pin fiercely flourished 
Behold 'em. In each tender breast 

The hope of fame is nourished; 
In high soprano tones they shriek 

A battle-cry inspiring. 
Who says that womankind is weak 

Or timid or retiring? 
us 



Nay, nay. Those Colorado belles 

Will figure in the mauling 
Where'er the tide of carnage swells 

With fury most appalling. 
And Spain will feel beneath her vest 

A heart with terror drumming 
When word comes in, ''From out the West 

The Amazons are coming." 



But hold. The Dons themselves may save 

By mean and vicious scheming 
Employed against those females brave, 

Of trickery ne'er dreaming. 
And many a Colorado house 

With sorrow will be laden 
If Spaniards cry "A mouse ! A mouse !" 

And scare off ev'ry maiden. 



Clipping Coupons. 



This is the shearsman, hired to clip 
Carnegie's coupons — snip, snip, snip ! 
Day in, day out, the whole year round 
At duty's post he will be found. 
While wreathed in smiles Carnegie hears 
The merr}^ music of the shears. 

Dear children, would you like to know 
Why coupons should be clipped off so? 
Few words it takes the tale to tell 
Which bloated bond sharps know so well. 
(Ah, children, would that shearsmen thus 
Were constantly at work for us !) 

114 



Carnegie, you're aware, no doubt, 
Has sold his mammoth bus'ness out. 
Two hundred millions — so they say — 
The buyers have agreed to pay. 
(Dear children, must it not be nice 
To sell out for so large a price?) 

Since coin is hard to lug away, 
In bonds Carnegie takes his pay; 
And on these pledges, good as gold, 
A claim for interest he'll hold. 
(Say, little folks, would you not like 
A mother lode like this to strike ?) 

On evVy bond are little squares 
Like tickets used for street car fares. 
Each serves upon the date correct 
One interest payment to collect. 
How's that for a luxurious lay — 
Just with a snip to earn your pay ? 

But when the bonds at — per cent, 
Two hundred millions represent, 
To snip and clip so vast a heap 
Must be an undertaking steep. 
Laborious ? Aye, but by the pow'rs 
We'd do it if the chance were ours. 



Be good, then, little ones, and pray 

That you may also some fine day 

Get rich like Andy and retire 

And able-bodied shearsmen hire. 

Ah, Paradise indeed is nigh 

When coupons pile up mountains high. 



115 



Calumpit. 



Hear the trumpet 

At Calumpit 
Calling Yankee lads to fight. 

Night or morning 

At its warning 
They turn out the foe to smite. 

Ah, they love the clarion note 

Coming from that brazen throat. 
"Here's an army. Come and thump it," 

Says the trumpet 

At Calumpit. 

When the trumpet 

At Calumpit 
Gives its message to the Yanks, 

There is shaking — 

Aye and quaking 
In the Filipino ranks, 

And commanders brown of skin 

Hearken with a sickly grin. 
"Filipos, 'tis time to hump it," 

Says the trumpet 

At Calumpit. 

When the trumpet 

At Calumpit 
Splits the welkin, there's a howl 

From the kickers 

And flaw-pickers 
That upon expansion scowl. 

"Ah, McKinley, there's no reason 

To be mild with semi-treason. 
Ofif the earth you ought to dump it," 

Says the trumpet 

At Calumpit. 

116 



When the trumpet 

At Calumpit 
Starts the boys, they do not lag. 

But despising 

Those advising 
That they quit the starry flag, 

They uphold the nation's fame 

And they curse the clique of shame, 
''Full of lead some day let's pump it/' 

Says the trumpet 

At Calumpit. 

Ah, the trumpet 

At Calumpit 
Never summons to retreat. 

In its message 

There's the presage 
Of a victory complete. 

And the Antis they may frown 

And want Uncle Sam turned down 
But their game — "Aha ! we'll stump it," 

Says the trumpet 

At Calumpit. 



St. Valentine. 



St. Valentine, your day is past, 

No longer lovers falter 
And tremble as with eyes downcast 

They loaf around your altar. 
No longer at your fabled shrine 
Do mooncalves kneel and mope and pine 
And venture with the pow'r divine 

Of poetry to palter. 

117 



There was a time, O ancient saint, 
When 'twas your pride and pleasure 

Mankind to please with daubs of paint 
And rhymes in lilting measure. 

Soft youths and maidens you'd entrance 

And lead 'em coyly to advance 

Along the paths of love's romance 
In quest of precious treasure. 

And oh, what missives you'd inspire ! — 
Perfumed and gilt the paper; 

And ev'ry line ablaze with fire 
Enkindled at love's taper. 

And at the end, sure sign of bliss, 

A string of "X's," each a kiss; 

You used to tell 'em, Val, that this 
Was quite the proper caper. 

Then you were fond of Cupid's darts 

In colors loud depicted ; 
The same were used for piercing hearts 

To mooncalfism addicted. 
And underneath you'd have a strain 
About the woes of love in vain 
(Those old-time lovers with a pain 

Were all the time afflicted.) 

But now, St. Val., your lovesick loons 

Rearwards are relegated. 
And nought we have but tough cartoons 

By malice vile dictated. 
Sign-painters wield the brush and paint. 
The verses — well, it makes us faint 
To think, sir, that so great a saint 

Has so degenerated. 



118 



Summer. 



'Tis usual at this time of year 
For poets tunefully to sing 
Their lays in praise of gentle spring, 

But now another song we hear ; 

The bards proclaim another comer, 
And twang the lyre in praise of summer. 

For these are truly summer days. 

No need there is to wait till June 

Ere undertaking to attune 
The voice and lute to languorous lays 

Wherein the poet deftly shows us 

Church picnics, lemonade and roses. 

The gardens prematurely bloom, 

The Easter flow'rs have done their duty. 
And shrubs and trees display their beauty 

And load the air with sweet perfume. 

And o'er the lawn grass, thickly growing. 
The swift lawn-mower goes a-mowing. 

Straw hats appear and eke the soft 
And jaunty headgear pearly-hued 
Is sported by the natty dude. 

The lightest overcoats are doffed 

And shirts once viewed with keen derision 
Loud-striped and gay beguile the vision. 

The gentler sex is glad to don 

The shirt waist with its cincture neat 
And dainty collar. Very sweet 

Are summer girls to look upon. 
Behold, unto these visions sightly 
The young man's fancy still turns lightly. 

119 



Along the roadway thick with dust 
The biker scoots at racehorse speed 
Upon his faithful silent steed. 

He'll make his century or "bust." 
Alas, if at some fatal juncture 
The Fates should queer him with a puncture ! 



A thousand other things combine 
To prove to any man of reason 
That spring no longer is in season, 

But yields to summer's sway divine. 
Ah, no one has a right to know it 

Much better than the floored spring poet. 



Davy Hill's Plea. 



"Roast me no more." It is the voice of Hill, 
Of warlike Davy, him that in the heat 
Of battle fierce delights the foe to meet 

And slaughter him. But oh, the bitter pill ! 

Submission humble is for him in store 

With broken lance he stands. Another leads, 
And Davy murmurs with a heart that bleeds, 
"Roast me no more." 



"Roast me no more." It was not thus he spake 
When at Chicago in tremendous flights 
Of eloquence he rammed the silverites. 

And jumped upon the fiat money fake. 

Then, then, war's honors from the field he bore. 
But now, shamefaced and eke with downcast eyes, 
He makes apology and meekly cries, 
"Roast me no more." 

120 



ii 



"Roast me no more." Were these the words that 
flowed 
From Davy when, his strength not overtaxed, 
G. Cleveland, chick-like, in the neck he *'axed," 
And, this achieved, with satisfaction glowed? 
Not so. Those all too palmy days are o'er, 
And he that used G. Cleveland's hair to raise, 
Now kneels before the Silver Gang and says, 
''Roast me no more." 



"Roast me no more." Just fancy words like these 

Proceeding from the lips of David B., 

When in the senate like a hero he 
Brought bluflfing statesmen to their wicked knees. 
How things do change! The eagle long may soar. 

But lo, at last his royal wing gives out. 

How pitiful those words of fear and doubt, 
" Roast me no more ! " 



"Roast me no more." The Popocratic press 
And orators that howl for fiat coin, 
The played-out warrior would thus enjoin 
His soul no more to harrow and distress, 
With jeering talk of bolters to the fore. 
"My principles," he says, "advise revolt. 
But I've a stake in this. I cannot bolt. 
"Roast me no more." 

"Roast me no more." Herewith an idol drops. 
To-day with Bryan he sits down to lunch, 
And o'er the oysters, terrapin and punch. 

Declares — alack ! — his fealty to the Pops. 

While, like a lost soul's shriek, from shore to shore, 
From Texas to the confines of New York, 
That awful cry gets in its deadly work, 
"Roast me no more." 

121 



The First Pantaloons. 

If the depths of real sentiment you're wishing to ex- 
plore, 
Seeking pathos that will fill your eyes with tears, 
And reviving plaintive memories from out the days of 
yore, 
Dim and gray now after long and weary years ; 
Don't be fooled with plaints deceptive as to rings and 
baby shoes. 
Things to which the bogus bard his song attunes, 
But recall with deep emotion how in youth you did 
enthuse 
O'er your first abbreviated pantaloons. 

Chorus. 

Galluses went with 'em ; whopping ones were they. 
Prized beyond all other earthly boons. 

And 'twill set your heart a-throbbing 

When you think of upward bobbing 
In your first abbreviated pantaloons. 

How you blessed your dad for buying them — those pre- 
cious hand-me-downs, 
And your mother when she helped you put them on ! 
How you burned to show them ofif to kids in petticoats 
and gowns 
And excite the rage of Tommy, Dick and John ! 
How you strutted back and forward feeling ev'ry inch a 
man, 
While your comrades sneered — the jealous little 
loons ; 
And you felt that all the world your form admiringly 
must scan 
In those first abbreviated pantaloons. 

Chorus — Galluses went with 'em, etc. 

122 



O how bitter was the day when, through an unforeseen 
mishap, 
In the basement of those pants a void was torn ; 
Then your aggravated parent laid you promptly on her 
lap 
And pro tern you wished you never had been born. 
Soon the buttons slipped their moorings and the knees 
they sprang a leak, 
And the patches looked Hke dissipated moons, 
So that people discontinued in admiring tones to speak 
Of your first abbreviated pantaloons. 

Chorus — Galluses went with 'em, etc. 

Where, oh where, is now that garment ? Has it gone Hke 
Caesar's clay 
In some weather-beaten shed to stop a hole? 
Is it worked into a crazy quilt or has it found its way 
To the haunts which carpet-weaving sharps con- 
trol? 
Have the ragmen gently fondled it? Well, wherefore 
should we ask ? 
'Tis enough that with the past your soul communes 
And that lovingly you think how in the joys you used 
to bask 
Of those first abbreviated pantaloons. 

Chorus — Galluses went with 'em, etc. 



A Kentucky Deadlock 



Not a head was smashed; not a jugular vein 
In the course of the fracas was severed, 

Not a pistol was pulled when Kentucky raised Cain 
And to wreck the old state house endeavored. 

128 



They brought in Joe Blackburn and Johnny Carlisle, 

And Boyle, to the senate aspiring, 
And the populace listened with anxious smile 

For the sound of revolver firing. 

No useless ballot would suit the crowd 

In the lobby grimly standing, 
But they slapped hip-pockets and cussed aloud. 

Recognition forthwith demanding. 

Few and short were the caucuses held. 
For 'twas known to the members' sorrow, 

That a riot one day by a caucus repelled 
Would bob up afresh on the morrow. 

And the governor on his executive bed 

Tossed about in a fitful fever. 
"Militiamen, double quick march," he said, 

"Ere the state is lost, retrieve 'er." 

Lightly they'll talk of this fearful strife. 

And forget the fright infernal. 
That old Jack Chinn with his bowie knife 

Gave to many a fellow-colonel. 

But little the Blue Grass state will reck 

If the boys who howled so madly 
Will only lie down, since direct in the neck 

They have got it from Governor Bradley. 

But half of their heavy task is done. 

For no senator yet is elected. 
And the populace still from the random gun 

Is substantially unprotected. 

Slowly and sadly the rest of us see 

The conclusion; but, friends, we're lucky 

To live in a land where a statesman is free 
From the shotguns of old Kentucky. 

124 



The Jingo 



(1896.) 

A jingo, in his fighting gear 

Swept with his eye the earthly sphere. 

Where'er his vision roved he saw 

The stirring signs of martial law. 

He saw the sword and burning brand 

Turn'd loose on many a helpless land, 

And, fired with zeal, he cried, "What bliss ! 

Our country must get in on this." 

He saw on Madagascar's soil 

The Hovas from the French recoil. 

*Neath waving palms, where monkeys dwell. 

The savage tribesmen fought and fell. 

The Frenchmen, flushed with triumph, vow'd 

That France had reason to be proud, 

"Confound it !" said the jingo grim, 

"Can't w^e be likewise in the swim ?" 

He saw John Bull in Ashantee 
Compel the native troops to flee. 
King Prempeh got a turning down, 
And lost his richly jeweled crown. 
Great heaps of gold and silver ware 
Were filched from Prempeh then and there. 
"Ah, sighed the jingo, " 'tis a shame 
That Uncle Sam can't do the same." 

He saw the Cubans in revolt, 
From monarchy they had to bolt. 
And so they march and countermarch, 
And out of Weyler take the starch. 
"We're after liberty," they cry, 
"We'll get that priceless boon or die." 
The jingo heard, and, with a blush, 
He said, "We must get in the push." 

126 



1 



He saw King Humbert's soldiers fling 
Themselves on Abyssinia's king; 
Who, being somewhat stout himself, 
Just laid those Romans on the shelf. 
"Great Scotland!" — Thus the jingo spoke, 
"This is indeed a sorry joke. 
If barbarism such feats can do. 
Why can we not be in it, too ?" 

Perhaps some day the jingo's hope 
Will be fulfilled in widest scope. 
Perhaps we, too, will feel the crash 
Of battle, and the foeman smash. 
And if perchance that jingo then 
Should be among the fighting men, 
And perish in the blood-red tide, 
Say, would he then be satisfied ? 



Dora ^nd Cassius. 



Young Dora, down Kentucky way, 
Did chores and things for Gin'ral Clay. 

She was a child of tender age, 

While he had reached the doting stage. 

But Cassius Clay, though old and gaunt, 
Was still a blooded old gallant. 

And to himself the Ancient said : 
"Methinks I'm not too old to wed." 

Young Dora, flattered, nursed a dream 
Of endless candy and ice cream. 

Her heart within her leaped to think 
Of countless sodas that she'd drink. 

126 



And how, right smartly primped and gowned, 
She'd eat French candy by the pound. 

And eke her neighbors she'd strike dumb 
By using yards of chewing gum. 

Therefore when Cassius made a play 
Tow'rds marriage, he was met half way. 

And when he murmured, "Be my wife," 
His handmaid answered, "Betcher life." 

The knot was tied, but Dora soon 
Grew weary of the honeymoon. 

Ice cream and candy lost their charm, 
And chewing gum was "not so warm." 

Consumed with languor and with doubt 
She dodged the Gin'ral and lit out. 

Will Bryant, young and fresh and straight, 
Met Dora at the outer gate. 

And, smitten with her girlish grace. 
Took boarding at the self-same place. 

Whereat the Gin'ral, struck aghast. 
Collapsed as though he'd breathed his last. 

Now, on both sides the kith and kin 
Of all concerned come piling in. 

The rifle and the bowie-knife 
Are ready for ensanguined strife. 

And when the bloody feud is o'er. 
'Most ev'ryone will be no more. 

Yet Dora, in her childish way, 
Just munches candy all the day. 

Ah, that the Kates should ever so 
O'erwhelm a white-haired Romeo! 

127 



Spring, 



No; we can no more conceal it, 

'Tis high time that we reveal it — , 

That this fair and fragrant thing JL 

Which by gliding in among us '^H 

Into ecstasies has flung us 
Is the spring, gentle spring. 
Tra la la ! 
Hear us sing, 
Yes, 'tis spring. 

Winter, dull and frozen-hearted, 
Has undoubtedly departed — 

For a year he's taken wing, 
Giving place, though far from willing, 
To that fascinating, killing 
Damsel spring, gentle spring. 
Tra la la! 
Hear us sing, 
Yes, 'tis spring. 

Hear the birdies how they warble, 
They would get a heart of marble 

Or of iron on a string. 
Each for better or for worse is 
Wed and thinks not of divorces 
In the spring, gentle spring. 
Tra la la ! 

Hear us sing, I 

Yes, 'tis spring. J 

) 
What though roads and streets are muddy ,J 

And the weather charts we study ^ 

Wet prognostications bring. ; 

128 ^ 

1 



It should hold us good and level 

To remember that we revel 
In the spring, gentle spring. 
Tra la la! 
Hear us sing, 
Yes, 'tis spring. 

With the dead past let us bury 
The seductive Tom and Jerry ; 

Beer henceforward is the king. 
And the druggist soon will load a 
Marble fountain up with soda, 
In the spring, gentle spring. 
Tra la la! 
Hear us sing, 
Yes, 'tis spring. 

One more word — avoid pneumonia, 
Which assuredly will bone you 

If you indiscreetly fling 
Heavy clothes aside, for, look you, 
Death is very prone to hook you 
In the spring, gentle spring. 
Tra la la ! 
Hear us sing, 
Yes, 'tis spring. 

Postscript. 

Seventy thousand million curses 
On these unpropitious verses — 

Dingety jam, bam dod bang bing I 
As we write a snowfall traps us 
And the mercury collapses 
In the spring, tricky spring. 
Ow, ow, ow! 
Hear us sing, 
Nary spring. 

V29 



i 

I 

Jolly Kaisers. j 



In old Budapest, 

Of Hungarian fame, 

Together they came, 
Kaiser Franz and his guest, 
Kaiser WilHe, whose plan 

Is his neighbors to hug 

O'er the little brown jug 
And the free-flowing can. 

It tickled the town 

Monarchs thus to behold. 
Each so gallant and bold, 

With his twenty-pound crown 

Tilted back on his head 

Just as much as to say, 
"We are out to get gay, 

And we'll paint the place red." 

"Nun, mein Lieber," said Franz, 
As the Kellner drew nigh, 
"Shall we start off on rye?" 

(Stowed away in his pants 

Was a flask of the same.) 

"Nay," quoth Willie, "Nicht das. 
Let the tanglefoot pass 

Till the end of the game." 

So the Kellner drew near 

And made haste to fill up 
Each imperial cup 

With old Bay'risches bier. 

And the ilagon-like steins 

Were no sooner drained out 
Than the emperors stout 

Cried together, "Noch eins!" 

130 



4 



Next the cup-bearers bore 

On a rich-jeweled tray 

A few quarts of tokay 
From the blue Danube's shore. 
" ^Tis hot stuff, Willie— not?" 

Said old Franz, with a wink, 

"Ach," says Will, " 'Tis a drink 
That goes right to the spot." 

Then there followed champagne, 
Some old widow Clicquot, 
Made in days long ago — 

And of claret a drain. 

And Madeira and port. 

And Chartreuse. Over this 
The boys started to kiss — 

They were chockfull of sport. 

Rye came in at the close 

And the ultimate bowls 
Fired the emperors' souls, 

And they jointly uprose. 

Shedding tears on the floor, 
Each the other embraced 
And with hearts interlaced 

To be brothers they swore. 

Hence 'tis perfectly clear 

That if monarchs would fain 
From dissension refrain 

They must start in with beer. 

And 'tis likewise no lie 

That if brothers they'd be 
They must also agree 

To wind up on old rye. 



181 



In the Toils. 

Drill, drill, drill. 

With unremitting toil. 
And the poor producers work with a will 

Sapping the earth of oil. 
They have hopes of profits fat, 

Which are of life the spice, 
But the best of 'em doesn't know where he's at 

When the Standard cuts the price. 

No monarch upon his throne 

Would have riches more profuse 
If the pipe lines weren't the Standard's own. 

Than the men that oil produce. 
There is wealth in the deep sunk well. 

But the "plans of men and mice 
Gang aft aglee," and it's "oh, wot t'ell !" 

When the Standard cuts the price. 

Drill, drill, drill, 

When the sun is shining bright. 
Drill, drill, drill, 

Through the watches of the night. 
With an open market, — say. 

Mines of gold would cut no ice 
With the men on the oleaginous lay 

Till the Standard cuts the price. 

Just five brief weeks ago 

Oil brought, with the Trust's consent. 
One twenty a barrel — The quid pro quo 

Made many a heart content. 
Has the output changed since then? 

Not much, but nowise nice 
Is the language that comes from the lips of men 

As the Standard cuts the price. 

182 



Down to a dollar she drops, 

And then to 99, 
And she falls and falls and never stops 

To rest in her quick decline. 
'Tis not demand and supply, 

Nor Fortune's cast of the dice, 
But monopoly winking its ugly eye 

As the Standard cuts the price. 

Drill, drill, drill. 

What use to count the cost 
When individual effort still 

By the same old trust is boss'd ? 
And it's oh for a pow'r to sweep 

Away that thing of vice ! 
And it's oh to bury the trust down deep, 

When the Standard cuts the price! 



Satan Rebuked, 

At Flushing, in the Empire state, 

A town that's highly moral, 
P'or virtue strictly up-to-date 

The school board takes the laurel. 
Its laws are moulded by the rules 

Of custom Puritanic, 
And peccadillos in the schools 

Create a real panic. 

There are among the teachers fair 

Three maids of beauty striking. 
Whom Satan, seeking to ensnare, 

Induced to practice biking. 
They hiked at noon, they hiked at eve ; 

They hiked when schoolward hieing. 
Some folks pretended to believe 

They'd bike if they were dying. 

183 



Of course these maids could not conceal 

Their strange and fatal weakness 
For scudding to and fro awheel 

With feminine uniqueness. 
And so unto the school board came 

A host of ugly rumors, 
And gossips murmured, ''Oh, for shame! 

They're on the road to bloomers." 

At this the grave directors met 

And talked the matter over ; 
It filled them with profound regret 

Such doings to discover. 
They felt they couldn't tolerate 

Three careless young carousers, 
Whose wonderfully rapid gait 

Would some day lead to trousers. 

Forthwith they raked those maidens o'er 

The coals, no mercy showing; 
Each speaker showed how more and more 

The world to sticks is going; 
How women duty's call forget, 

And go with dudes a-spooning, 
And how those hateful wheels must yet 

Result in pantalooning. 

The maidens wept. What could they do? 

Their case was past repairing; 
And so they broke their wheels in two, 

The use thereof forswearing. 
And now in Flushing, this decree 

Is firmly promulgated : 
That wheels for woman all must be 

Within her head located. 



184 



Not for Joe. 

You've heard of Joseph Sibley, who 

To farming fame aspires; 
He farms upon a kite-shaped track 

And grows pneumatic tires. 
In politics he thinks he ought 

To get a goodly show, 
And hankers to be governor, but 

That job is not for Joe. 

Chorus. 

Not for Joe, not for Joe, 

Not for Joseph, 

Oh dear no, sir. 
Not for Joe, no, no, no, 

The governorship is 
Not for Joe. 

Joe lives in old Venango, but 

When he for office ran, 
The Erie-Crawford voters chose 

Him for their congressman. 
And still their hearts with love of J. 

So largely overflow, 
That they want to make him governor, but 

That job is not for Joe. 

Cho. : — Not for Joe, etc. 

In congress Joseph made a hit. 

Free silver he upheld. 
And when the Wilson bill came forth, 

He valiantly rebelled. 
His Democratic backers sought 

A dark revenge, and so 
They trot him out for governor, since 

That job is not for Joe. 

Cho. : — Not for Joe, etc. 

186 



! 



The Populists beheld his course 

With half-suspicious eye ; 
They said, "Let us indorse him and 

Right there is where he'll die." 
Old J. discreetly answered back: 

"Hands off, kind friends, for lo. 
If I'm your choice for governor, then 

That job is not for Joe." 

Cho. : — Not for Joe, etc. 

The ruling Dems. at Harrisburg 

Now mingled in the fun. 
And cheerfully took Joey up 

Since no one else w^ould run. 
"Get out your barrel, J.," they cried, 

"And freely let her go, 
" 'Tis nice to run for governor, though 

That job is not for Joe." 

Cho.: — Not for Joe, etc. 

The voice of General Coxey, too, 

Was raised in tones of zeal. 
"I'm with you, J.," the general said, 

"And so's the Commonweal." 
The Commonweal, J. might have known, 

Foreshadows comin' woe; 
The governorship it settles, and 

That job is not for Joe. 

Cho.: — Not for Joe, etc. 

If Joseph only profits by 

The lessons of events, 
He'll hie back to his kite-shaped track 

And farming implements. 
The governorship on General Dan 

The people will bestow. 
And crack a smile as they remark, 

"That job is not for Joe." 

136 



The Equinox, 



Now the time has come for voicing 
Great and glorious rejoicing, 
For the vernal equinox 
Is on hand, bright-eyed and ruddy 
And old winter with a thud he 

From his coign of vantage knocks. 
And this equinoctial stranger 

By whose coming hearts are stirred 
Entertains no thought of danger — 

Such a thing would be absurd. 
He's a bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird. 
He's a ripping, rattling equinoctial bird. 



Fairly over the equator 
Hangs Old Sol, the conservator 

Of creation's vital spark. 
He was somewhat misanthropic 
While he hugged the southern tropic — 
Then our clime was cold and dark. 
But to-day he gives us gladly 

Equal length of day and night, 
And the poets carol madly 

And declare the season quite 
Out of sight, sight, sight, sight, sight, sight, sight; 
They declare it to be strictly out of sight. 



Bit by bit the Orb will creep up 
Tow'rds the north and he will keep up 

His performance ev'ry day, 
Getting warmer as he travels. 
Shutting up the man who cavils. 

Making friends along the way, 

137 



Till in June he'll come to Cancer 

And the boiling point he'll hit; 
Farther north he can't advance or 

He'd press on; but there he'll quit; 
Yes, he'll quit, quit, quit, quit, quit, quit, quit, 
Having roasted us and broiled us he will quit. 

Blessings on that just arrangement 
Which prohibits long estrangement 

'Twixt ourselves and Ancient Sol. 
After winter's blizzards vicious 
'Tis a privilege delicious 

Under balmy skies to loll. 
Oh, tho' all the world may perish, 

Let us hope that cruel shocks 
Ne'er will touch the thing we cherish, 

Our delightful equinox. 
For it 'nox, 'nox, 'nox, 'nox, 'nox, 'nox, 'nox. 
The persimmon — that's precisely what it 'nox. 



From Cairo to the Cape. 



Come Austin, Alfred Austin, wake up and earn your 

wage; 
The glory of Great Britain now is at its highest stage. 
Up, lad, and twang your laureate lyre. Don't let the 

chance escape 
To glorify the pow'r that strides from Cairo to the Cape. 

Along the valley of the Nile, across the wild Soudan, 
Through parts of Darkest Africa scarce visited by man. 
Where dwell the lordly elephant, the lion and the ape, 
J. Bull is carving out his path from Cairo to the Cape. 

188 



Khartoum goes down before him with a heart-appall- 
ing thud, 

Dear knows how many Dervishes lie welt'ring in their 
blood! 

And, smitten in the portion of the neck that's called the 
nape. 

The fierce Kalifa flies the track 'twixt Cairo and the 
Cape. 

Who threatens at Fashoda ? One Marchand — sacre 

bleu !— 
A little hint from Kitchener soon shows him who is who. 
Ah, many a Frenchman's family would soon be wearing 

crepe. 
If the Mounseers dared to bar the way from Cairo to the 

Cape. 

Along the edge of Congo, where the Belgians hold 

their own. 
Past Ujiji and Zambe, brought to light by Livingstone; 
On, on, past Bangweolo's lake, in true heroic shape 
Sweeps Johnny Bull along the road from Cairo to the 

Cape. 

Through Bechuanaland he goes. Tremendous is his 

gait. 
No use for Boers and Hottentots to vent their spleen 

and hate. 
Those warriors in mourning gear their citadels may 

drape. 
For Bull is bound to make the run from Cairo to the 

Cape. 

*Tis done. The road is open. Rivals in the cold are 

left. 
Arise then, Mr. Laureate. Arise and show your heft. 
Bid all the Britishers fill up on nectar from the grape, 
In honor of the Queen's Highway from Cairo to the 

Cape. 

139 



Advice to the Shah. 

There's a new Shah in Persia, a bright-looking chap, 
Who will listen, perhaps, to a plain "verbum sap," 
To a bit of advice having visible force 
Since it comes from a thoroughly civilized source. 
So give ear, if you please, ere your work you begin, 
To a few words of counsel, Muzaf¥er-ed-Din. 

First, we haste to remind this incipient Shah 
That his lately deceased and lamented papa 
Of his ways saw the folly three decades ago. 
And to mend 'em went trav'ling for years to and fro. 
On returning the seeds of reform he put in. 
Why not go and do likewise, Muzaff er-ed-Din ? 

Now the Shah that is dead, though he did fairly well 
When the great wheels of progress he tried to propel, 
Was a tyro at best and — unfortunate man ! — 
He survived not to finish the work he began. 
Hence the rest of it falls on his nearest of kin. 
Take it up, then, instanter, Muzaffer-ed-Din. 

We are told that in Persia the natives perforce 
Have been led superstitions of old to unhorse, 
And with open reluctance, themselves to resign 
To the railroad and eke to the telegraph line. 
But they need something more if a place they would 

win 
Among civilized nations, Muzaffer-ed-Din. 

There's the hat a la stovepipe, which progress denotes. 
There's the plan of electing a man without votes, 
There's the ''poster" disease and the bicycle hump. 
There's the style of oration that's used on the stump. 
And the ballet, which baldheads behold with a grin ; 
They are all worth a trial, Muzaffer-ed-Din. 

140 



You must not forget baseball. Your governing scheme 
Should embrace an invincible Teheran team, 
And you'll find that when Ispahan, Shiraz et cet. 
Make a race for the pennant and cranks start to bet 
The applause of the world you will certainly win, 
There's no charge for this pointer, Muzaf¥er-ed-Din. 

Just throw in the New Woman. Prepared is her sphere, 
For your people already wear bloomers we 'hear. 
Make your theater folk warble heart-stirring lays 
On the model of "She May Have Seen Better Days." 
Make each "copper" a statesman. (You say that's too 

thin. 
Well, perhaps, — but 'tis progress, Muzafifer-ed-Din.) 



Now, Muzaffer, begin on the lines we have shown, 
And you'll do yourself proud while you sit on the 

throne. 
For as ignorance fades and the glorious light 
Of superlative culture comes fairly in sight. 
All creation will swear by the Prophet's old chin 
That there's never a fly on Muzaffer-ed-Din. 



To a Lady in Distress 



O Lady Smith, O Lady Smith, 

Unless we're much mistaken, 
You're lacking in the means wherewith 

To save your precious bacon. 
Nearby a ruthless foeman waits. 

In fashion nowise tender. 
He soon will batter at your gates 

And call for your surrender. 

141 



Aye, madam, 'neath the skilled command 

Of Joubert, stern old marshal, 
Twelve thousand Boers are close at hand, 

And, ma'am, to gore they're partial. 
They're seasoned hunters ev'ry one, 

And 'tis no idle banter 
To say that with unerring gun 

They'll pot their game instanter. 



They've come from veldts and drifts and neks 

To ply a soldier's calling. 
And, ma'am, they won't respect your sex; 

You're certain of a mauling. 
Unless — and this we sorely doubt — 

You've adequate resources 
To keep those fierce assailants out 

And paralvze their forces. 



Lo, even now the trumpet notes 

Of quick assault give warning. 
Oh, ma'am, tuck up your petticoats. 

Nor think of danger scorning. 
But with your cannon emphasize 

Your hate of fighters shady 
That would with shot and shell surprise 

A Smith who is a lady. 



O Lady Smith, O Lady Smith, 

In such a situation 
Why not invite your kin and kith 

To lend co-operation. 
If all the Smiths from foreign shores 

Would but take up your quarrel. 
They'd swiftly polish oft the Boers 

And wreathe your brow with laurel. 

142 



Aye, e'en the plain John Smiths would make 

An army fully able 
The pow'r of all the Boers to break — 

Just call 'em, then, by cable. 
For, Lady Smith, 'twill never do 

If, through some painful blunder, 
An interesting dame like you 

Should suddenly go under. 



Coamo. 



This is the song of Coamo, 
Where Hulings, the brave, with his legion 
From Old Pennsylvania's oil region. 
Came down on the Dons and o'erthrew 'em 
And shot 'em and otherwise slew 'em. 
It seemed one of Destiny's rulings 
That nothing could stand before Hulings 
Or cope with the courage infernal 
Of the oil country boys and their colonel. 

Girdled with walls is Coamo. 
On all sides the mountains surround it. 
Not easy our warriors found it. 
To get there. The general commanding 
Bid all march ahead notwithstanding. 
To Hulings he said : ''While we pound 'em 
In front and our lines close around 'em 
Go you to their rear, there to catch 'em. 
And then we shall quickly dispatch 'em." 

Ah for the fate of Coamo ! 
'*A11 right, sir," quoth Hulings and, leading 
His men, he was soon seen proceeding 
O'er boulders and torrents swift-rushing, 

143 



Nor feared any Spaniard ambushing. 
Not one of his soldier boys tarried, 
But proudly the old flag they carried 
And waved it with great airs and graces 
In most inaccessible places. 

Now in the rear of Coamo 
At length Hulings' warriors gritty 
Line up, while in front of the city 
The mainguard's artillery batters 
The walls, which it speedily shatters. 
No use to wait there for a beating. 
The Dons get the word for retreating. 
They start, but unhappy their fate is. 
For Hulings outside the back gate is. 

Quick was the end at Coamo. 
The Dons, although cornered and rattled. 
With desperate bravery battled. 
No terror their grit could diminish. 
But Hulings soon showed 'em their finish, 
And the general, on learning the wind-up. 
Observed to the regiments lined up, 
With countenance visibly brightening: 
*'Those oil country boys are chain lightning." 



Willie's Dinner Party. 

There were covers laid for fifty 
Politicians shrewd and thrifty. 
Willie Flinn, you see, was giving 'em a lay-out "a la 
carty." 
At his invitation urgent 
Ev'ry true and tried insurgent 
Donned his spiketail and betook himself to Willie's din- 
ner party. 

144 



Oh, the viands were delicious 
There were rare and costly dishes 
From the soup that mocked the turtle to the toast that 
never quailed. 
And the guests they murmured "Trust us, 
Mr. Flinn, to render justice 
To your bill of fare," whereat the same they gallantly 
assailed. 



And the host with visage shining 
Sa3^s, "I'm proud to see you dining 
Here to-day, and boys I'm hoping that you'll one and 
all eat hearty." 
Ah, such ancients as LucuUus 
Would have reason to be jealous 
If they only saw the royal spread at Willie's dinner 
party. 



There were speeches full of vigor, 
Davy Martin cut a figure 
Quite distinguished when he rattled off an anti-Quay 
oration. 
John Dalzell in language polished 
Mathew Stanley soon demolished. 
And his views were hailed with evidence of real appro- 
bation. 



Calvin Wells demanded credit 
For the gentlemen who edit 
Mr. Wanamaker's organs and with hot philippics fill 
'em, 
And Van Valkenburg dilated 
On the furore he created 
By his threats to hold the Quayites up and hammer 'em 
and kill 'em. 

145 



Koontz, of Somerset, describing 
How the bribers did their bribing, 
Made a famous hit. He told how in the lobby many a 
"smarty" 
Used a "wad" but was detected 
By the boys that "insurrected." 
This delighted all the spotless ones at Willie's dinner 
party. 



Wanamaker wasn't present, 
His condition was unpleasant, 
Since he happened to be laid up with a twenty-pound 
carbuncle. 
But he sent a letter saying : 
" 'Tis a noble game we're playing, 
And I'm with you to a finish. Very truly yours — 
Your Uncle." 



Then there was a general slaughter 
Of the best champagney water, 
And of Burgundy, Madeira, claret, hock and port and 
sherry. 
And those co-mates vowed that never 
Would the fates their friendship sever, 
But they'd cleave together always in a union chaste and 
merrv. 



After which the boys meandered 
While the band of music rendered 
Strains expensively Beethovenish and some of 'em 
Mozarty. 
Thus the curtain fell and ended 
The diversion great and splendid, 
Which historians will enlarge upon as Willie's dinner 
party. 

146 



Slabtown 



At Slabtown, sev'ral days ago, 
All coondom wore a merry glow, 
And bright and sparkling was the flow 
Of Plum Creek rolling rapidly. 

Great was the uproar and the fun; 
Of bug-juice steady was the run. 
Each Ethiopian had a gun 

And plunked his neighbor gallantly. 

Speak-easies did a rushing trade, 
The booze upon the spot was made, 
'Twas keen as any razor blade, 
And deadly in its potency. 

But on the colored heroes rushed 
And charged the kegs and lushed and lushed, 
And mugs were carved and craniums crushed 
In tantrums of insanity. 

And there were stirring games of crap 
All day and all the night on tap; 
Bankrupting many a dusky chap 
And breeding rows promiscuously. 

Amid the rattle of the bones 
You'd hear 'em yell in murd'rous tones. 
Bing, bang! Tremendous oaths and groans 
Would permeate the shrubbery. 

Around the coons who tried their skill 
Gay ladies loafed in deshabille, 
Awaiting an invite to swill 
The product of the doggery. 

147 



And when the ladies got their load 
With gaiety they overflowed. 
And ugly-looking guns they showed 
And fired 'em off right nobbily. 

At night when Luna lit her lamp 
The coons would carry out of camp 
The corpses of the day, and damp 
And drear would be their burial. 

But burials quickly were forgot, 
For some one else would soon be shot. 
Dear, dear, but they had times red-hot 
When Slabtown held its carnival! 

But Slabtown saw another sight. 
When Kersten came, in all his might. 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The haunts of giddy revelry. 

And Plum Creek wore a carmine hue 
When busted kegs of liquor flew 
Athwart its tide, within the view 
Of Afros, moaning wearily. 

Farewell then, Slabtown. Here's a toast 
Unto the boys that laid thy ghost: 
Oh, may their days be long to roast 
The pow'rs that deal in deviltry. 



148 



Seavey's Isle. 



From Seavey's isle they've sailed away, 

Cervera and his seamen. 
In jail they made a two-months' stay 

And now they all are freemen. 
They're sailing back to sunny Spain, 

But though their thraldom's over, 
They'd like to strike that jail again, 

For there they were in clover. 

Before Cervera's famous fleet 

Was sunk, their woe was utter. 
They didn't have a thing to eat. 

Not even bread and butter. 
So keenly hunger's pangs they felt 

That with despairing faces, 
They tightened every man his belt 

To close the hollow spaces. 

Now when these lads were yanked to jail, 

All fresh from scenes of slaughter. 
They looked with countenances pale 

For naught but bread and water. 
And, oh, you should have seen 'em grin 

When Uncle Sam, the sinner, 
Sang out, ''My skinny friends, pitch in," 

And sat 'em down to dinner. 

He served up tubs of milk and soup, 

And tons of beef and bacon. 
And springtime chickens from the coop 

In countless dozens taken. 
Cold slaw and mushrooms, garden truck, 

Bologna, rice and sago, 
Such luck before was never struck 

By any Spanish dago. 

14U 



Now such a life as this was sweet. 

By dint of meals and luncheons, 
Those Dons, with naught to do but eat, 

Swelled out as big as puncheons. 
Perceiving what might happen here, 

Says Uncle Sam, half weeping, 
"I'll have to ship you home for fear 

You'd burst while in my keeping." 

And that is why they sail to-day 

Across the ocean briny. 
Four hundred pounds apiece they weigh, 

And all are sleek and shiny. 
And when the Dons at home in Spain 

Behold these fattened sailors. 
They'll all be rushing o'er the main 

To board with Yankee jailers. 



Boley on the Watch 



Now from his castle turret Sir Boley casts his eye 
Upon the outstretched landscape, the plain, the sea and 

sky. 
His brow is pale and anxious, his mouth is drawn and 

hard. 
With Brennen at his elbow and the chairmanship to 
guard. 



"Say, Boley," quoth the chairman, "dost thou per- 
chance behold 

Far off upon the highroad a foeman blithe and bold; 

Some cavalier pretentious, sent hitherward by Sipe 

To paralyze our henchmen and the chairmanship to 
swipe?" 

150 



\ 



*'Nay, nay," the judge responded, "mine eyes are true 
and keen, 

But I behold no cavaher as yet upon the scene. 

Be calm, good brother William, don't yield thee to 
despair. 

As long as I can wield the lance, thou'lt hold that bles- 
sed chair." 

"Hark, Bole," quoth Brennen trembling, "what distant 

noise is that ? 
Don't tell me it's a thunder-clap; don't tell me it's the 

cat. 
Like to the tramp of Xerxes' host across the grassy 

plain ; 
Methinks ten thousand Rutledges are after me again." 

"Now, prithee, William," said the judge, "do let thine 
heart be still. 

Yon sound is not of savage men, who mean to burn and 
kill; 

The mighty host that passes is merely out for fun ; 

'Tis but the gang of postmasters en route to Wash- 
ington." 

Big beads of sweat stood out upon Sir William's marble 

brow ; 
He saw Pat Foley, Larkin, too, and recognized them 

now. 
"May Providence be praised," he said, "that peaceful 

men are they. 
Too busy holding Grover up to take my chair away." 

The army passed and soon another dubious cloud of 
dust 

Appeared on the horizon to Brennen's great disgust. 

"Hand me my culverin," he cried, "no more suspense 
for me, 

To arms! to arms! that chair of mine must never cap- 
tured be." 

161 



*Teace, caitiff," Bole responded, "the cloud that yonder 

looms 
Is only Tim O'Leary, who's laden down with booms; 
He, too, is bound for Washington with Grover to 

confer. 
And careth not though from that chair thou nevermore 

shouldst stir." 



At this the chairman brightened, the anguish left his 

soul; 
He saw the coast was keeping clear. He put his trust 

in Bole. 
And well he might, for haply no man will ever dare 
To break a lance with William while Boley guards the 

chair. 



The Girl Graduate. 



What form is this whose charms serene 
With delicate and lustrous sheen. 

The stage illuminate? 
Is't Venus or Diana? Nay, 
'Tis one far lov'lier than they — 

The sweet girl graduate. 



In robes of virgin white she stands. 
With jewels on her dainty hands. 
And flow'rets in her hair. 
Her glass has told her of her charms. 
And so she feels no strange alarms, 
Nor shirks the footlights' glare. 

162 



A thousand dudes in yellow shoes, 
And neckties of hilarious hues, 

Look on with lovesick eyes. 
Their gaze she does not fear to meet, 
But just to bring them to her feet 

Her level best she tries. 



A hush upon the audience falls; 
Deep interest its soul enthralls, 

No covert sneer doth lurk 
When she unties a ribbon blue. 
And opens up to public view 

Her essay — peerless work ! 

Now, now she lets the torrents loose 
Of learning vast, and thoughts abstruse, 

Worthy of sages old. 
The field of rhetoric for flow'rs 
She ransacks. Wondrous are the pow'rs 

That here themselves unfold. 



Scarce have the plaudits died away, 
When lo ! she seats herself to play 

Piano solos grand. 
Mozart, Tschaikowsky, Sydney Smith, 
She bangs and slams and rattles with 

A finely cultured hand. 

She closes. Flow'rs fall round her fast, 
How can she ever be outclassed? 

Folks ask with flushing cheek. 
Ask of young Counter Jumper who 
Gets twelve per month, his honest due ; 

She'll marry him next week. 



158 



The Mandolin Club. 

O list to the music that's borne on the breeze, 

(Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay); 
Like the ripple of wavelets on sweet summer seas 

(Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too). 
No semblance of discord the harmony warps, 
One would think 'twas the angels performing on harps, 
But 'tis only a concert of mandolin sharps 

(Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink-a-twee). 

Refrain. 

Then hearken with rapture beyond all compare, 

To the sweet twinkle-twankling that twunks through 

the air. 
Flee away from the brass band's delirious blare, 

And the orchestra's giddy hubbub. 
Dull care to the winds will at once be consigned. 
And a solace for grief you'll immediately find, 
In the gentle and soft twinkle-twanklesome grind 

Of the twunklesome MandoHn club. 
(Twink-a-twoo.) 

Beethoven's sonatas they play like old vets 

(Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay) ; 
And full justice they do to the *'High School Cadets" 

(Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too). 
The waltzes of Strauss and Waldteufel they play 
In a witchingly winsome and delicate way; 
Till you wish they'd keep at it all night and all day. 

(Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink-a-twee). 

Ref. — Then hearken with rapture, etc. 

The "Dead March in Saul" they can render with skill 

(Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-too). 
And the strains of the "Yorke" they reel ofif with a will 

(Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too). 



"McGinty," "Tannhaeuser," the songs of the war, 
'^Semiramide," "White Wings" and "Rory O'More, 
Are among the bright things in their vast repertoire. 
(Twink-a-twank, twink-a-tvvunk, twink-a-t\vee). 

Ref. — Then hearken with rapture, etc. 

Pianos and organs must move to the rear 

(Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay). 
Their Hght is bedimmed while the mandoHn's here 

(Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too). 
The future May Festival, all must agree, 
Will be shaped to conform to the people's decree, 
And a mandolin carnival surely 'twill be 

(Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink-a-twee). 

Ref. — Then hearken with rapture, etc. 



The Boy Graduate. 

He mounts the stage. His brow is clear, 
He knows no qualm, no puny fear, 

No quiver of dismay. 
Noble and lofty is the state 
Of youthful Mr. Graduate 

Upon commencement day. 

Garments brand-new his form bedeck, 
A tow'ring collar walls his neck. 

His cuffs are snowy white. 
Who, in such radiant togs as these, 
Could stoop to weak'ning at the knees, 

Beset with vulgar fright? 

165 



Not he. The proud and happy lad 
Expertly coached and nobly clad, 

Feels "to the manor born." 
Genius his soaring soul expands, 
And fame nearby awaiting stands — 

He views the mob with scorn. 



What's this that he unfolds? Oh, yes 
It is, it is, a large MS., 

With burning thoughts inscribed. 
The people listen with intense 
Delight, till all his eloquence 

They've joyously imbibed. 



All nature's secrets he unlocks, 
The rules of science orthodox 

He handles like a sage. 
Problems that make our statesmen swear 
He settles with astuteness rare 

In this benighted age. 

Then, when the thunders of applause 
Have ceased, and he at length withdraws, 

'Mid torrents of bouquets. 
The glee club claims him, and he takes 
His turn at rippling trills and shakes 

In rattling college lays. 

Alas! that after college days, 

With light and life and hope ablaze. 

There comes a cold, cold deal ; 
When heroes of the stage must try 
Their luck at hustling, or — oh, my ! — 

Go join a ''Commonweal." 



i»s 



Paddy Rewski. 



A strain of mourning fills the air; a strain of anguish 

keen, 
Because the gcd-like maestro has vanished from the 

scene. 
Unto their grief our Pittsburg maids unceasingly give 

vent, 
The world for them has lost its charm since 

Paddy 
Rewski 

Went. 

The mem'ry of his tawny hair is like a bushy dream. 
Three feet of wiry waviness — a poet's fitting theme. 
Out, out upon close-shaven heads! Who cares a 

copper cent 
For ordinary barber work since 

Paddy 
Rewski 

Went. 

His features they are classic, and he has a melting eye , 
He doesn't wear a spiketail coat Hke any common guy; 
His limblets are a poem, in their movements eloquent. 
We'll never see their like again since 

Paddy 
Rewski 

Went. 

i 
They say he plays sonatas and symphonic thingumbobs, 

Which move expert musicians to indulge in pray'rs and 

sobs; 
But music doesn't enter to a very great extent 
Into what the girls are thinking of since 

Paddy 
Rewski 

Went. 

157 



O ye who at his ahar have been worshiping, suppose 
The whole ecstatic crowd go after 'Tad" where'er he 

goes. 
'Tis only thus that kindred souls forever can be blent 
And wipe out all the pangs one feels since 

Paddy 
Rewski 

Went. 



Columbus. 



Bring the good old Caravel across the seas, yeo-ho ! 
Bring her as she first was brought four hundred years 

ago, 
When she came for Yankeeland a-hunting high and low, 
Thanks to the nerve of Columbus. 

Chorus. 

Hurrah, hurrah ! Let's sing the praise of Chris. 
Hurrah, hurrah ! Just think what we would miss 
If Chris had never stumbled on a land so fair as this ; 
That's what we owe to Columbus. 

In the town of Genoa Columbus first drew breath. 
People there still ask you, ''Didgenoabout his death?" 
For he is forgotten there ; so many an expert saith ; 
That's pretty rough on Columbus. 

Pedagogues insisted that the earth was wholly flat ; 
Christopher declared he couldn't let it go at that. 
Thereupon the nincompoops with big rattans got at 
And tanned the hide of Columbus. 

158 



Christopher grew up and went a-sailing on the sea. 
''In the course of time I'll knock out Captain Cook," 

thought he. 
Cook had not been born yet, but the gift of prophecy 
Lurked in the soul of Columbus. 

Isabella met the lad (she was the Queen of Spain); 
Thought he was dead gone on her, for Belle was prettj 

vain. 
"Christopher," she said, *'for thee my bank account I'll 

drain." 
Right in the swim was Columbus. 

Bella she put up the cash; Columbus did the rest; 
Sailed away from Pales toward the undiscovered west. 
Everybody thought the scheme was but a merry jest ; 
But they were fooled in Columbus. 

Glorious the triumph was when Yankeeland he struck, 
Filled with copper-colored folks and lots of garden 

truck. 
''Gentlemen," says Christopher, "this is a run of luck." 
Those were the words of Columbus. 

Other foreign immigrants came after, when they saw 
That the Indians didn't have a contract labor law; 
Hence the Union flourishes with more or less eclat, 
All on account of Columbus. 

Therefore join us, young and old, and make the welkin 

ring. 
Hymns of jubilation let us all in chorus sing. 
Thankful for the good things that continue still to 
spring 
Out of the cruise of Columbus. 

ir.9 



Lullaby. 

Over the mountains to Booze-Away Land, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Where fairies are sporting on Tamarack strand, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Weary eyes closing and legs getting weak. 
Tongue getting thick — ah, 'tis hard now to speak, 
Papa's been on it, dear babe, for a week. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 

Daily he trudges to Barrelhouse Town, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
His nose it is red and his taste is seal brown, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Bright is the sheen of the dollars he spends. 
Setting 'em up for his thousands of friends ; 
A white-aproned goblin upon him attends, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 

Alcohol River's aglow in the sun. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Dad goes a-swimmin' when he has the "mon," 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Rivulets enter its bosom so clear, 
Rhine wine, and claret, ale, porter and beer. 
But King Corn- Juice lays over 'em all, never fear, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 

See where the boas and copperheads play, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Always frisk round when the old man's that way. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Take him away where the Strait Jackets dwell. 
Into a cute little Hospital Cell : 
Medical fairies will soon make him well. 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 

100 



Grand is the kingdom of Do-It-No-More, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
Dad will land there when the circus is o'er, 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
O little babe, when to manhood you grow, 
Never to Booze-Away Land must you go ; 
Look at your father, and tell me ''No, no!" 

Bye-bye, bye-bye. 



Chautauqua. 



Chautauqua! O thou sacred spot, 
Where idle tourists linger not ; 
Where vulgar sports, of habits low. 
Their brazen faces never show; 
Where fakirs for their arts profane 
A license ask, but ask in vain; 
And where enlightened laws exclude 
The noxious lady-killing dude ; 
The vivid fact we can't disguise — 
Thou art a Christian paradise. 

Pure are the ways thou walkest in. 
Unlike those garish haunts of sin. 
Seaside resorts, where throng like sheep 
The vulgar, making angels weep. 
Tom, Dick and Harry there combine 
To soak themselves with rosy wine. 
Along the beach the maidens scoot, 
Each in a scanty bathing suit. 
The righteous man, with burning cheek, 
Must turn from these thy charms to seek. 



1 



Lo, in thy temples do we find 
Sublime reflection for the mind. 
Thy people nearly all possess 
A score of titles, more or less. 
Doctors, Professors, Reverends, too. 
In all directions are on view ; 
And every one his chance doth wait 
To mount the platform and orate. 
Thine is, in fact, Chautauqua dear, 
A most didactic atmosphere. 

Rostrums and blackboards huge abound ; 
They're utilized by thinkers sound ; 
Philosophers with heads that bulge, 
Who scientific truths divulge ; 
Linguists well versed in ev'ry freak 
Of Latin, Hebrew, French and Greek ; 
Artistic sharps who'd have you know 
That they could teach Mike Angelo. 
Glory is theirs that never fades 
In blest Chautauqua's classic shades. 

The woman on the suffrage lay — 
Of course, you know, '*she'd-talk-away," 
And so she does. Her light's not hid, 
For John stays home to mind the kid, 
And while his hand the cradle rocks 
She lectures on the ballot box. 
This feat, so woman-like and cute, 
Brings forth the handkerchief salute, 
And as the girls the speaker greet, 
They vow Chautauqua's "just too sweet." 

162 



Alas, Chautauqua, with distress 

The ghastly truth we must confess, 

With thee and thine we can't consort, 

Because on goodness we are short. 

Excuse our conscienceless remarks, 

But we prefer midsummer larks 

To hearing the discourse complex 

Of Doctor Y. or Reverend X. 

Therefore, thy charms with reverend awe 

We'll worship from afar. 

Ta, ta 



Election Day. 



Daybreak : The dawn with smiling face 

Illuminates the polling place ; 

Lights up the frosty sidewalk where 

Election officers repair, 

To figure out with caution due 

Which one is which and who is who, 

And, swearing one another in. 

The business of the day begin. 

Inspectors, clerks and judges, all 

Within the booths themselves install; 

And watchers, early on the ground, 

Look wise and idly stand around 

Till with a self-approving grin, 

The first stray voter ambles in. 

A candidate or two comes by 

To see that nothing is awry, 

And in the foreground, full of grace, 

A copper stands and twirls his mace. 

163 



Midday : Now doth the fight wax hot, 

A hundred men are on the spot ; 

The heeler, rounder, thug and bloat 

Beset the man who wants to vote. 

In all directions, left and right. 

Police and firemen are in sight, 

With hosts of other active chaps, 

Who live on soft official snaps. 

The challenger now cuts a swath 

And leaves his victims white with wrath. 

Prone in the dust will he be laid 

Whose taxes yet remain unpaid. 

The candidates, with anxious air. 

Are here and there and ev'rywhere; 

Liquor there is in large supply; 

From hand to hand the greenbacks fly, 

While calm and heedless of the fray 

The Baker ballot pounds away. 

Evening : The hard-fought battle's o'er, 
The warriors cleanse themselves of gore. 
Still on the sidewalk loafs the crowd. 
Beery, obstreperous and loud. 
The board within takes ofT its coat. 
And figures up the total vote. 
At last returns are given out. 
And greeted with a rousing shout. 
Moved by the mob's approving cheers, 
The winners set up countless beers. 
The losers, when they hear the news. 
Sneak off unseen and get the blues. 
This ends it all. At once the town 
Gets sobered up and simmers down; 
Business resumes its even flow, 
All things return to statu quo. 
And war's alarms are filed away 
Until the next election day. 

101 



Turning the Tables. 

If Roberts should turn the tables; 
If when he gets the bounce 

He has the grit 

And ready wit 
His foemen to denounce ; 
If in terms distinct he labels 
The false-pretending crew 

That makes to-day 

A virtuous play 
What then will congress do? 

They call his life improper; 
They say that prison gyves 

Would fit the case 

Of the Mormon base 
Who sports a trio of wives. 
But what if a sudden stopper 

Were placed on the statesmen who 

Dark byways tread 

With wives unwed? — 
Then what would congress do? 

For among those purists smiting 
The man from Utah state 

There's many a one 

That never was known 
To walk in pathways straight. 
And after their blatherskiting 
If Roberts should bring to view 

In vengeful style 

Their covert guile 
Then what would congress do? 



And why should he not thus settle 
His score with the snarling pack 

That rolls its eyes 

And loudly cries: 
*'A sinner thou art ! Stand back !" 
Ah, friends, if a man of mettle 
Would tell us just who is who 

And what is what 

In that plague-struck spot, 
Then what would congress do? 

Lay on, then, Roberts, and spare not; 
With the rod of truth chastise 

The sorry array 

That make their play 
Togged out in virtue's guise. 
Lay on, sir, and forbear not. 
Till we know the record true 

Of the statesmen all 

That seek your fall. 
Then what will congress do? 



Goosebone Wisdom 



What warning voice is this we hear? 
Lo, 'tis the goosebone prophet who 
Alarms us with a forecast blue, 

(His liver must be out of gear). 



Like to Cassandra, who in days 

Long past, gave all the world a chill 
By prophesying nought but ill 

The goosebone sharp his views conveys. 



166 



No sign propitious can he see. 
His osseous indicator shows 
No trace of aught but blackest woes ; 

A most dyspeptic cuss is he. 

"Be warned," he cries, "Ye mortals all 
This year you'll miss the keen delight 
That's in a winter crisp and white. 

The mercury will refuse to fall. 



"No friendly snow the earth will deck 
Inviting youths and maids to glide 
In sleighs across the country side; 

Such joys will get it in the neck. 

**The small boy, with his bumping sled, 
Will have no chance to yell, 'Track, track ;' 
And lay the traveler on his back. 

Bunged up with cold, he'll lie abed. 

"And there will be no stretches vast 

Of solid, smooth and glassy ice 

Skatorial artists to entice. 
The skater's happy day is past. 

"Old Santa Claus when he comes out 
By seas of mud will be appalled; 
His dainty reindeer will be stalled. 

The Saint will shake his job, no doubt. 

"Then, owing to the Christmas mean, 
All hands will sicken and collapse 
And then the doctors, lucky chaps ! 

Will fill their wallets with long green." 

Thus speaks the Goosebone sharp. And oh, 
If what he says were really true, 
To give that sour old boy his due. 

We'd get an ax and lay him low. 



Gatacre's Inveiglement. 



Out spake Gatacre boldly as the natives flocked around : 
''Now who will guide mine army to the burghers' 

camping ground? 
For I am on my way to join Methuen, but before 
We meet I want to wipe out ev'ry intervening Boer. 
Speak up, then. Ample recompense will fall unto the 

lot 
Of whosoever humps himself and leads me to the spot." 



Forth stepped some aborigines. Of guileless mien 
were they. 

"Command us, honored sir," they said ; "we'll guide you 
on your way. 

We know the veldt from end to end. We know the tor- 
rents swift. 

We're onto ev'ry kopje, ev'ry neck and ev'ry drift. 

Besides, we're true and faithful, and your army, never 
fear, 

With guidance such as we supply will get the proper 
steer." 



The deal was closed instanter, and the British marched 
along 

With confidence unflinching. Were they not four thou- 
sand strong, 

And had they not of deadly arms a plentiful supply? 

Well might they yearn to sight the Boers and catch 'em 
on the fly. 

"In sooth," the bold Gatacre said, "my plans can hardly 
fail. 

And 'twill be strange if any Boer survives to tell the 
tale." 

16S 



"Bang, boom!" What's that? "Boom, bang!" What's 

this? On center, left and right 
A hundred flashes overcome the darkness of the night, 
And through the British columns, taken wholly una- 
wares, 
A hail of shells and rifle balls incessant rips and tears. 
While to the ears of Gatacre, that warrior of renown 
A laugh of mockery is borne. Those guides have done 
him brown. 

No chance to rally now. No hope of silencing the foe. 

Thus trapped, the Britishers have not the semblance of 
a show. 

With lines cut up and hearts bowed down, those war- 
riors undone 

Have no recourse remaining but at once to cut and 
run, 

While those whom they designed to slay, with vengeful 
thoughts aglow, 

Pursue the fugitive brigades and smash 'em as they go. 

So comes from poor Gatacre the woe-beg one report 
That his campaign of triumph has been suddenly cut 

short. 
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he writes, "it cuts me to the 

quick 
To think that I should ever fail a band of Boers to lick." 
And henceforth when Gatacre takes his troops to parts 

unknown 
He'll give the native guides the shake and play his hand 

alone. 



169 



Objurgatory 



Lo, the cup of German wrath 

Is uncomfortably full, 
All by reason of the swath 

That is cut by Johnny Bull. 
For his emmissaries bag- 
In a most offensive way 
Ships that fly the German flag 

Down by Dalagoa bay. 
Over bows they're firing shots 

(This their nation ill befits), 
And the reichstag thunders 'Totz T 

And the kaiser mutters " Blitz !" 

Ask Bull the reason why 

On his high horse thus he rides, 
To the question he'll reply, 

" 'Tis the fault of Dr. Leyds. 
None that knows the truth disputes 

That this agent of the Boers 
Has been drumming up recruits 

And accumulating stores; 
And since Germans take his cash, 

Their offense is mighty rank, 
Driving me to mutter 'Dash !' 

While my people thunder 'Blank !' " 

Frenchmen join the hue and cry, 

"Bull," they say, "may rule the seas, 
But he cannot justify 

Hateful infamies like these. 
No ; he can't assert the right 

Like a cat to lie in wait. 
Seizing ev'rything in sight. 

Whether passengers or freight 
He's a pirate; he's a wrecker; 

He cares not a fig for law; 
Here the men of France cry 'Sacre !' 

And the journals shout 'A bas !' " 

170 



Bull, impassive as a rock, 

Hears it all and doesn't blanch; 
He expects no battle shock 

From the Germans or the French. 
So he gathers in his prey. 

And he never cares a pin 
What his critics choose to say 

As the ships he gathers in ! 
Let 'em freely wag the jaw 

While of indignation full. 
"Potz!'' "Blitz!" "Sacre!" and "A Bas"- 

They are all the same to Bull. 



'Mn Extremis." 

''Now hang it all," says Chamberlain, "this thing has 
gone too far, 

Tho' 'tis glory that we sieek. 

We are licked three times a week. 
We need a man like Roberts, who won fame at Can- 
dahar. 

Or Hke Kitchener to soak 

These unruly burgher-folk. 
Our strategists are rusty and their tactics are n. g. 
Their method of campaigning simply isn't worth a D. 
'Tis perfectly disgraceful that high rollers such as wc. 

Rich and brave and big and strong 

Should be walloped right along." 

Roberts at the summons comes upon the double quick, 

And he makes obeisance low 

To the Honorable Joe. 
"Now, my boy," says Joseph, " 'tis for you to do the 
trick, 

You must scoot across the wave 

And the nation's honor save. 

171 



Gatacre has been razzled on his journey from the Cape, 
Methuen has been paralyzed and pounded out of shape, 
And Buller — well for Buller's troops we're mostly wear- 
ing crepe. 

Hors de combat are they all. 

That's why you receive a call." 

''Well and good," says Roberts, "your command shall 
be obeyed. 
Though my hair is snowy white 
Still I'm not afraid to fight. 
All my brethren have been whipped, but hang it ! Who's 
afraid ? 
With decided ease and grace 
Mr. Joubert I will face. 
It isn't very pleasant for a man to risk his fame 
By taking up the thread of an infernal losing game, 
And though I later on may find that Dennis is my 
name, 
I am ready for the trip 
And I'll try to let 'er rip." 

Kitchener is ordered to accompany his chief. 

He's the stout and sturdy man 

Who won out in the Soudan. 
The coming of the pair of 'em gives promise of relief 

(If their fame is not a myth) 

To beleaguered Ladysmith. 
And to the troops demoralized that now are on the 

ground 
'Tis glorious to hear about the heroes thither bound, 
But Kruger only winks his eye and says, ''When they 
come round 

Will our people have to flee? 

Ha, ha, ha ! Just wait and see." 



172 



McKinley's Message. 

Congress from its labors dizzy 

Suddenly was bid to cease. 
Members loud and brisk and busy 

Simmered down and held their peace. 
In the house forensic bruisers 

Ceased to make a grand stand play. 
In the senate ancient snoozers 

Closed their eyes and snored away. 

For the voice of Pruden ringing 

Loud and clear proclaims to men 
That a message he is bringing 

From the presidential pen. 
And the statesmen must be docile; 

None must praise or blame or scofif, 
While the document colossal 

By a clerk is rattled off. 

Lo, the clerk with visage solemn 

In a high-pitched monotone 
Reels off colum after column 

With full many an inward groan, 
Till at last his voice comes thinly 

And he finds it hard to speak, 
For that message from McKinley 

Seems as if 'twould last a week. 

Plans for strengthening our finances. 
Little stabs at trade combines 

And occasional side-glances 

At our neighbors' monkey-shines. 

Treaty outlines, full of promise, 
Words of thankfulness sincere 

To convince the doubting Thomas 
That prosperity is here. 

173 



Diagrams of our campaigning 

On the Filipino shore; 
Pledges meant to check complaining 

From the Cubans, always sore. 
Tips on many a happy presage 

Of good times within our land, 
All are furnished in that message 

From McKinley's honored hand. 

But, although the thread they're losing, 

Which may seem a trifle odd, 
Still the senators keep snoozing 

And the other fellows nod. 
And they hear it not nor heed it 

For this reason, which is true, 
That in print some day they'll read it 

When they've nothing else to do. 



Where Can Aggie Be ? 

They say that Aguinaldo is no longer to be found; 
That somehow he has slipped away from Luzon's 

bloody ground. 
They're searching for him high and low, on land and 

on the sea. 
But all in vain. He can't be traced. Oh, where can 

Aggie be? 



Perhaps he's in the Transvaal pounding Johnny Bull. 
Perhaps he's in a temperance town, getting good and 

full. 
Perhaps he's up in cloudland with a harp and crown. 
Perhaps — perhaps — but what's the use? We can not 

run him down. 

174 



A nimble leg has Aggie. When he first received a hint 

That Uncle Sam meant business, he at once began to 
sprint. 

Says Otis : "This will never do. We must not let him 
flee," 

But now the general wonders where on earth can Ag- 
gie be? 

Perhaps he's gone to Russia with a bombshell for the 

czar. 
Perhaps he's being kodaked as the only shooting star. 
Perhaps he's playing football in the realm of cap and 

gown. 
Perhaps — perhaps — but what's the use? We can not 

run him down. 

Our troops kept gamely on his trail. They hustled af- 
ter Ag 

From Calembangaloocan to the wilds of Balinag. 

They often thought they had him, but just like the Irish 
flea. 

He wasn't there. He wouldn't stay. Oh, where can 
Aggie be ? 

Perhaps he's in Kentucky doubling up the Goebel vote. 
Perhaps he's drinking CHcquot with the Prince and 

Joey Choate. 
Perhaps he's gone to Hades with the Ancient Boy to 

sup. 
Perhaps — perhaps — but what's the use? We give the 
rascal up. 



iia 



The Open Door, 



Now in a chorus uniform, 

A great harmonious strain, 
That overpow'rs the howHng storm 

And echoes o'er the main, 
The nations join. In such a lay 

They've never joined before; 
For the rattHng song they sing to-day 

Is the song of the open door. 

Open door on Chinese coast. Heathen shan't say nay. 
Open door in Cochin ; open door in Mandalay. 
Break the lock of the Orient. Riches are in store. 
There's golden coin for the pow'rs that join in the song 
of the open door. 

The voice of England leads the stave; 

**0 brethren mine," quoth she, 
'' 'Tis not the land and loot I crave 

In cHmes beyond the sea. 
To hopes of blessed peace I cling 

Unmix'd with thoughts of gore, 
xA.nd in this righteous mood I sing 

The song of the open door. 

Open door in Africa — soon 'twill be in shape. 
Open door along the line from Cairo to the Cape. 
Afrikanders, hold your peace. Proudly to the fore. 
Is Progress, stepping onward to the song of the open 
door. 

The German kaiser's basso voice 

Comes in to swell the tune. 
The Japs do likewise, and rejoice 

With allies to ''reune." 

176 



And last, but nowise least, you'll hear 

On fair Columbia's shore, 
Sent out from Uncle Sammy's throat, 

The song of the open door. 

Open door, Samoa, shall forevermore be thine. 
Open door — hold on, though; we must somewhere 

draw the line. 
If Luzon, too, must be unlocked, why, then, perhaps no 

more 
You'll hear your Uncle Sammy sing the song of the 

open door. 



The Gobbler's Doom 



He does not know. He harbors no suspicion 

Of ruin high. 
No sign of aught to alter his condition 

Can he espy. 

With head erect and ample breast expanded 

He struts around. 
No fears has he of foes against him banded — 

He knows his ground. 

What if the farmer now doth feed him double 

To make him fat? 
Quoth he : ''A gobbler has the right to gobble. 

No doubt of that." 

And when strange people come around and eye him. 

And note his size. 
He feels that they are there to glorify him. 

That's no surprise. 

For is he not the noblest thing that's living — 

A sovereign born ? 
And gossips rude that talk about Thanksgiving 

He laughs to scorn. 

177 



He to be slaughtered ! He to make a dinner 

For gourmands gay ! 
'T would take a fearfully case-hardened sinner 

To act this way. 

Ask of the hens that humbly gather round him; 

They'll all declare 
That none can overawe him or confound him. 

He knows no scare. 

And yet — this in a whisper we're reve*aling — 

We'll soon behold 
The ax across that gobbler's jugular stealing, 

Keen-edged and cold. 

This tale is duly with a moral salted : 

Remember, all, 
That pride, stiflf-necked and overly exalted 

Must have a fall. 



Poe. 

Heroes invincible, patriots, warriors. 

Statesmen whose names are on tables of gold, 
Poets, philosophers, fistical ''tarriers." 

All that by Fame on her list are enrolled. 
Lights of antiquity, notables latter-day. 

Ne'er will again have the ghost of a show. 
Dwarfed and o'ershadowed they all were last Saturday ; 

Now the world's worshiping centers on — Poe. 

What is the trade of him? What is the style of him? 

What makes him greater and grander than all? 
Why does the multitude hang on the smile of him? 

Why is the universe under his thrall ? 
Wherefore will babes be endowed with the name of him, 

Which the fond parents rejoice to bestow? 
Whence the spectacular, earth-shaking fame of him? 

Marvelous, mighty, redoubtable Poe! 

1T8 



Is he a new sort of mental phenomenon. 

Is he a demigod ,far above men, 
Blest with the gifts of a Greek or a Roman 'un 

Such as we mortals may ne'er see again? 
Is he a conqueror, bard or philosopher? 

Is he with fire superhuman aglow, 
That this old earth should accept as the boss of her 

Glorious, wonderful, wizard-like Poe? 

None of these roles is one-half big enough for him, 

Wider and nobler by far is his sphere ; 
Only one human pursuit is the stuff for him, 

Only one calling on earth he holds dear. 
Ask for old Princeton whose prowess revealed for her 

Glories that will sempiternally glow? 
Who against Yale kicked a goal from the field for her? 
List to the roar of 'em. 
Ninety-nine score of 'em 

Thunder the answer : Who was it but Poe ? 



A Meteoric Deception. 

Put away the kodak and the lengthy telescope. 

File the heavenly charts away 

Till a more propitious day. 
Shed a bitter tear or two and bid good-bye to hope. 

There is sorrow in the cup, 

And we've got to drink it up. 
The scientists contracted for a great and glorious show 
None like it had been seen since three and thirty years 

ago— 
With meteors the realms of Space, they said, would be 
aglow. 

But 'twas all a hollow cheat 

And the meteors didn't mete. 

179 



Thousands of the populace sat up and watched the sky. 

Not a blessed wink they slept, 

But a steady vigil kept. 
Nobody amongst 'em had the nerve to close an eye ; 

None would venture on a snooze 

Lest the spectacle he'd lose. 
They sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat, 
And strained their eyes till many a one was blind as any 

bat 
But ah, their weary vigil turned out profitless and flat. 

They were victims of deceit. 

For the meteors didn't mete. 



On the Allegheny hills Brashear was on the watch 
In an eager attitude; 
To a lens his eye was glued. 
Close at hand were cameras the gorgeous sight to 
catch, 
Ev'ry kodak cocked and primed 
And with accuracy timed. 
A multitude around him w^atched his ev'ry move with 

awe. 
They knew that in his processes there couldn't be a 

flaw. 
But somewhere in the small hours he was heard to cry, 
"Oh, pshaw !" 
Then he beat a quick retreat 
For the meteors didn't mete. 



Clouds did all the mischief. They were piled up thick 
and black 

And they acted as a bar 

To the festive falling star. 
Ev'ry blessed meteor was driven ofif the track. 

And no other show'r is due 

Until 1932. 
No wonder that vindictive ones are looking for Bra- 
shear. 
No wonder that a sleepless mob is wildly on its ear. 
No wonder that the awfulest anathemas we hear, 

iFar too wicked to repeat, 

For the meteors didn't mete. 

180 



Dreyfus Avenged. 

Ah, little did the Frenchmen know 

When Dreyfus they were hounding, 
That Nemesis was lying low 

To take revenge astounding. 
Had they foreseen the awful fruits 

Of Dreyfus' cruel sentence, 
They'd all have trembled in their boots 

And made a swift repentance. 

But all unchecked the men of guile 

Achieved their shameful purpose. 
Their victim went to Devil's Isle 

Beyond all habeas corpus. 
And all too late they brought him back 

And loosed the chain that bound him, 
For Nemesis was on their track 

Determined to confound 'em. 

To-day, behold, the crushing blow 

Upon their heads is falling. 
Their great and glorious Expo 

Will meet a fate appalling. 
To Thomas, peerless Theodore, 

For music they are turning. 
But vainly, vainly they implore; 

Their ofifers he is spurning. 

His answer is both hot and strong, 

He glares and thunders : "Diable ! 
Think you I'd trust my band among 

Your mischief-making rabble? 
Begone, avaunt ! No base Mounseers 

My peerless men shall rope in. 
Just think of feasting brigand ears 

On Mendelssohn and Chopin ! 

181 



'Td rather die than treat you to 

Tschaikowsky and Beethoven, 
Or even to such Hghts brand-new 

As Herbert and DeKoven. 
From me you'll never, never drag 

A single theme or chanson ; 
You'll get no tempo of the rag, 

No Massenet, no Saint-Saens." 

This floors 'em. ''Theodore," they say, 

''With fatal force you knife us." 
'Tis thus a fitting price they pay 

For what they did to Dreyfus. 
And henceforth when they're in the mood 

To chase men and undo 'em 
They'd better let up and be good, 
Or Yankee strings and brass and wood 

Will never more come to 'em. 



On the Ice. 

Now the skater, shod with steel, 
Full of vigor and of zeal. 
Notes with pleasure that the waters have consented to 
congeal. 
And he girdeth up his feet. 
And with motion smooth and fleet 
He cavorts across the landscape at a pace that's hard 
to beat. 

If perchance he is brand-new. 

Then affairs go all askew, 
And his pristine evolutions are appalling to the view. 

Lightly he essays to skim 

O'er the ice, but Fortune grim 
Designates a sitting posture as the only one for him. 

182 



Then he may be young and rash, 
Fond of surfaces that smash, 
And in consequence he'll frequently go under with a 
splash. 
And though rescued on the spot 
And filled up with liquor hot, 
He most likely gets pneumonia and goes where it 
freezes not. 

But if fully skilled is he, 

Everybody must agree 
That his dexterous gyrations are a charming thing to 
see. 

As he glides from place to place, 

At a very giddy pace, 
He presents the true embodiment of poetry and grace. 

'Tis a source of pleasure great 
When he doth ejaculate, 
''Keep your eye upon me, fellers, while I cut the fig- 
ure 8." 
And beholders must proclaim 
That their feelings are the same 
When in lettering that's faultless on the ice he cuts his 
name. 

Accidents, of course, may mar 
His career. It is a bar 
To his triumph when his cranium hits the ice and makes 
a star. 
And the hearts of all are sore. 
And with anguish brimming o'er. 
When he strikes a wicked air-hole and goes down to 
rise no more. 

But he is a chipper chap. 

Full of blood and vim and snap ; 
So let's hope that he'll encounter no misfortune or 
mishap. 

And that frosty weather still 

Will maintain its grip until 
Ev'ry skater of the edifying sport has had his fill. 



Bobs of Candahar. 

Now haste thee, Bobs of Candahar, 
For lo, in Afric's land afar, 
The Hght of fair Britannia's star 

Is sadly on the wane. 
Her soldiers, formerly the best 
In all the world, are sore distress'd 
What they've ''bit off" they can't digest, 

And bitter is their pain. 

Ah, Bobs, you may conceive their woe, 

Recalling how, not long ago. 

Those lads were sneering at the foe 

That has them now at bay ; 
How Buller, that distinguished chief, 
In public said, " 'Tis my belief 
That in Pretoria our roast beef 

We'll eat on Christmas day." 

Did Buller's forecast come to pass? 
What need to answer No. Alas, 
Elsewhere the knife and fork and glass 

On Christmas day he plied. 
With Boers in front and Boers behind 
And Boers on right and left he dined, 
While shot and shell by hands unkind 

Were fired from ev'ry side. 

Poor Buller! 'Twas his hope forthwith 

To bring relief to Ladysmith, 

And all his friends and kin and kith 

Believed he'd do the trick. 
But when he reached Colenso, lo, 
Old Joubert suddenly let go 
And dealt him a destructive blow 

Upon the double-quick. 

184 



Hence, Bobs, you're needed in a rush. 
Make haste, lad, and get in the push 
Before the Boers to atoms crush 

The flow'r of Britain's flock. 
To you Britannia's people turn, 
Exhorting you in words that burn 
To whip the Boers from stem to stern, 

And all their games to block. 

And, Bobs — oh, melancholy thought ! — 

If all in vain your aid is sought, 

And if your plans should come to naught, 

(Here let's indulge in sobs) 
Then Britain nothing else can do 
But simply skip the tra-la-loo 
From Africa, and as for you — 

Oh, but you'll catch it, Bobs ! 

Naughty-Naught. 

We may drop a tear 

For the good old year 
That is dead, but why repine 

Since the year brand-new 

Is as good and as true 
And as jolly as Ninety-nine? 

Yes, the rising star 

Is brighter far 
Than the star whose fall is wrought. 

Then a toast let's drink 

And our glasses clink 
To the health of Naughty-naught. 

Chorus : 

Cheer, boys, cheer. 

Never a tear, 
Here's to the naughty, naughty year. 
May his coming with bliss for all be fraught. 
Here's a health to Naughty-naught. 

ISiS 



The good old year 

Had a bright career, 
He was chipper and blithe and gay, 

With generous hand, 

He gave to our land 
Success that is here to stay. 

Aye, more than enough 

Of the long green stuff 
To this land of ours he brought. 

But there's plenty more 

Long green in store, 
Then hurrah for Naughty-naught ! 

Cho. — Cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 

Yes, love grows cold 

And it's off with the old 
And on with the love that's new, 

And the year that's fled 

To the world is dead 
And vanished from mortal view. 

But wherefore mourn 

For another is born 
And to serve us well he ought. 

Then your glasses fill, 

And drink with a will 
To the health of Naughty-naught. 

Cho. — Cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 



Aggie's Flight 



There was terror in Bimbolango; 
The news came in that day. 
That the Yankee troops 
With murderous whoops 
Were coming to burn and slay 
They had taken Tingotango, 
And wrought destruction dire. 
And 'twas oh, the dread 
Of a scene blood-red 
And of terrible sword and fire. 



186 



Quoth Aguinaldo's mother, 
''My son, what news is this 
That makes you shake 
And quiver and quake? 
Oh, tell me, what's amiss." 
"Oh, mother," says he, "don't bother 
It is but a passing chill. 
'Twill yield no doubt. 
To a poultice stout 
Or an antibilious pill." 

"O son, you speak not truly. 
I see by your troubled looks 
And your quiv'ring shanks 
That the awful Yanks 
Will soon get in their hooks. 
I urge you not unduly. 
But if you love me, Ag. 
You'll leave me not 
On this ill-starr'd spot 
For Lawton's men to bag." 

"Say, mother, what harum-scarum 
Idea is this you've framed ? 

Fear not, fear not. 

For even if caught 
By Lawton's troops untamed. 
You'll grace no Yankee harem 
Nor yet be a slave for sale. 

And those Yankee chaps 

Some day, perhaps. 
Might let you out on bail." 

Thus saying the dauntless leader 
Picked up his valise and skipped. 
In vain the chase. 
His lightning pace 
Pursuers all outstripped. 
But his mother, who was no speeder. 
Just sat in her hut and whined. 
And the Yanks came round 
And all they found 
Was the old girl left behind. 

187 



Brother Jolo. 

Uncle Sam plays no longer a solo ; 

Without the least sign of regret 
He has taken the Sultan of Jolo 

To join in a ruling duet. 
''Yes," quoth Sam to the Sultan, "Old chappie, 

Your throne I don't want to pull down, 
Your vassalage won't be unhappy. 

For, lad, I shall leave you your crown." 

"My liege," quoth the Sultan, "pray tell me, 

In case to my slaves I hold on. 
Do you mean to chastise and expel me 

And leave me completely undone? 
And then my poor wives — will you scare 'em 

By ruling polygamy out ? 
Oh, sire, if I give up my harem 

My glory will vanish, no doubt." 

"Fear not," Uncle Sam answered gaily, 

Though slavery counts among us 
As a thing that is deucedly scaly, 

About it we'll not have a fuss ; 
And your wives — well, we won't be outlawing 

Those ladies. Just keep the whole crew. 
For a careful distinction wx're drawing 

Between Brigham Roberts and you." 

Quoth the Sultan: "You'll certainly lay me 

Beneath obligations immense. 
If a stipend you're willing to pay me. 

I'd like to have some recompense." 
"Dear fellow, I'll do it," said Sammy. 

"Five dollars a week is the price, 
And your chiefs and your courtiers — why, damme, 

For them five a year should sufiiice." 



The bargain was closed and 'twas settled 

That henceforth the star-spangled flag 
Should float o'er the Moros high-mettled, 

Confounding such traitors as '*Ag." 
Ended now was the vile domination 

Of pirates and bandits and "sich," 
And we added an isle to our nation 

Without the least sign of a hitch. 

Then here's to our brothers in Jolo, 

No longer condemned and despised, 
They have laid down the gun and the bolo 

And as Yankees they're now recognized; 
They are yellow, but bless you! their color 

With us shouldn't cut any ice, 
For their isle will yield many a dollar 

And oh, but it's cheap at the price! 



The Ground Hog, 



In tradition old and hoary 
Treasured up in song and story 
(Jealously such things are hoarded), 
Solemnly it is recorded 

That upon this date and day 
From his hole, where he's been sleeping 
Through the winter, softly creeping 
Comes the ground hog, nosing, Avinking, 
Sizing up the scene and blinking 

In a very furtive way. 

Not in fashion helter skelter 
Does he issue from his shelter. 
There in quarters snug and cozy 
He's been having dreams of rosy 

Times when summer days come round. 
There no biting blasts could chill him 
And with pains rheumatic fill him. 
Thickest snowstorms never "fazed" him. 
Zero's edges never grazed him ; 

He's been warm and safe and sound. 

189 



Shyly he slips out and shivers. 
Aye, in ev'ry nerve he quivers. 
For he dreads the wintry tussle, 
Dreads the Ice King on his muscle, 

Dreads Jack Frost's inclement hand. 
And his heart within him flutters, 
And the sentiments he utters 
Signify his anxious feeling 
In the face of things congealing 

Ev'rywhere throughout the land. 

Now for him there comes a crisis. 
Minus warnings or advices. 
He must deftly put together 
Two and two and gauge the weather, 

Gauge for forty days ahead. 
All mankind on him depending 
Waits upon the fateful ending 
Of his mission. Ah, 'twould grieve us 
If the ground hog should deceive us. 

But he never does, 'tis said. 

If the sun he should set eyes on 
Climbing up from the horizon, 
And his shadow darkly throwing 
On the snow, then he'll be going 

Underground again to snooze. 
And for forty days unpleasant 
Things will keep on as at present. 
Freezing right along and snowing, 
Likewise polar winds a-blowing 

While men shiver in their shoes. 

But if he beholds no trace of 
Sun and shadow, then in place of 
Going back again to cover 
He'll stay out, for winter's over 

And the way for spring is clear. 
Hence humanity has reason 
At this very doubtful season 
In the very choicest phrases 
To recite the ground hog's praises, 

.And that's why these lines appear. 

190 



Lady Smith. 



Do you hear that distant drumming, 

Lady Smith, Lady Smith? 
That's a sign that Buller's coming, 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 

He has sworn by high and low 
To release you from the foe. 
But he happens to be slow. 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
He is desperately slow, 
Lady Smith. 



Do not kick because he's tardy, 

Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
Haste, you know, would be foolhardy, 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 

For 'twixt you and him there lurk 
Foes that, like the heartless Turk, 
Do all sorts of deadly work. 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
Theirs is very deadly work, 
Lady Smith. 



How, indeed, could BuUer hustle, 

Lady Smith, Lady Smith, 
When with Boers he has to tussle, 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith ? 

They have guns on ev'ry kop. 
Firing broadsides from the top. 
And they simply will not stop, 

Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
They're too hard of heart to stop, 
Lady Smith. 
Ill 



Buller once essayed to flank 'em, 

Lady Smith, Lady Smith; 
And he really hoped to spank 'em. 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
Spion Kop he occupied, 
But the Boers ran up the side. 
Then the Britons mostly died, " 

Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
Quite a number of 'em died. 
Lady Smith. 

Buller ever since is careful. 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
He is watchful now and pray'rful, 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
He is hoping that some day 
He will find a passageway 
And slip through without delay. 

Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
There will then be no delay. 
Lady Smith. 

Then wait patiently and coolly, 

Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
Don't be fractious and unruly. 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
For be sure, the British race 
Won't commit desertion base 
When a lady's in the case, 
Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
And it won't neglect your case, 
Lady Smith. 



192 



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